Shivering Isles: Haze of Madness
by Raven Studios
Summary: Orphael knows something is amiss within the Isles, but can't prove it. Lahallia finds herself Sheogorath's mortal champion, and can't wait to go home. With the forces of Order on the march, time in which to stop the Greymarch dwindles.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: this is, as we all know, as applicable to all chapters as this the first: I don't own Oblivion – Bethesda Softworks does.

Special and repeated thanks go to my beta Pheonicia, without whom there would be a lot of typos, unclosed plot/logic gaps, and far too many filler words. She's a fantastic writer, so if you haven't looked at any of her work, please, do so now. ^_^

The UESP Wiki is one of my core sources of information – special thanks to their very existence. Enjoy the story!

Chapter One: The Mazken

New Sheoth Palace, 3 E Year 1

"Well?" Grakendo Udico frowned, her blue eyes mere slits in her face.

Orphael bowed politely, knowing Udico was not a woman to be trifled with, particularly not when she was in a bad mood. And this went far beyond any mere bad mood. "The Aureals have fallen, as we expected they would. However, as unexpected, they didn't delay Order for long. Didn't even thin their ranks. They've got to be getting reinforcements from somewhere – but I'm sane if I can understand how."

Udico ground her teeth, fingering the hilt of her sword. She knew Aureals were useless lot, a waste of space and air, but she had expected them to – at the very _least_ – slow the Forces of Order down a little. Too much faith in the foolish. "Did you happen to learn anything remotely interesting, male?"

Orphael looked around at the throne room, trying to figure out which piece of bad news would not result in his immediate execution – or an invitation to make a suicide run against the Forces of Order, which was about the same thing. That annoying chamberlain, Haskill, continued to skulk, suffering something akin to separation anxiety since Lord Sheogorath's disappearance, silent and useless. The entertainers, the courtiers, all gone. Nothing remaining but a few scattered Aureals and the Mazken themselves, and a city in a state of advanced chaos.

"No – only that I still believe Order has taken our Master." There – the least upsetting piece of news. If Udico asked for more, she would have no excuse to do anything particularly spiteful, because she had_asked_. And as for Order…he frowned, looking away from his superior.

It had to have done so, taken the Master – there was no other answer. The Master might be irresponsible (hence his need for devoted retainers, such as the Mazken), fond of games and jokes – as well as punishments – but surely he'd never just…_leave_. Not when his Realm collapsed around its inhabitant's ears.

Those who _had_ ears, anyway. Those Argonians made Orphael wonder…

"How long?" Udico asked tiredly, looking at the male. Not as useless as an Aureal, but short temper and convenience made her append that he was only _marginally _more useful. Still, in all fairness, a scout was a scout, and it would be far more counterproductive if he'd thrown himself on the Swords of Order, rather than report back.

"Depends on if they make straight for New Sheoth, or if they take time to reinforce their hold on the rest of the Isles…" he answered. "If I may advance the opinion…" he paused to give Udico time to tell him to keep quiet.

Udico grimaced, but nodded anyway. Why not? It couldn't hurt to hear.

There were decided advantages, Orphael considered as he chose his words, to having held a high position in Lord Sheogorath's favor, prior to the Daedric Lord's abduction. "It doesn't really matter _how_ they do it, Grakendo, they're digging their heels in. If we wait, they'll only be able to gather more reinforcements from the Fringe, to pour in through the Gates – we all know that's where the brunt of them are coming from. If they solidify their hold, they'll be impossible to dislodge…"

"Are you telling me," Udico hissed, "that we've already lost? Impossible!" She picked up an inkwell and hurled it across the room, where it shattered. Of course it was impossible! Unheard of! The Mazken didn't _lose_. "No!"

The ink, dark as his own skin, spread, seeping into the red carpet on the Manic side of the throne room, giving him something at which to look. Not to mention Duke Vaelar of Dementia had vanished as well, run away. And the new Duke of Mania, Thadon…the useless little Bosmer was too far gone on felldew, blissfully unaware of the war enveloping the realm.

"Yes. My apologies, Grakendo. And still no sign of Order's leader. I refuse to believe these bucket heads are autonomous. Not if they represent _Order_." The word tasted foully corrosive in his mouth. No, Order would have a far more stratified chain of command than even the Mazken and, Orphael hoped rather than believed, much less ingenuity.

Year after year, life after life, in all the fragments of his memory, the hazy little cobwebs of the last Circle, and the one before…he remembered nothing so implacable, nothing so assiduous in the systemic destruction of the Isles.

Poison in the Waters, and he could no more stop it than free the souls on the Hill of Suicides.

"Tell me something I don't know, worm," Udico snapped, finally giving into temper, her indigo eyes flashing as her dark lips pulled back into a snarl, revealing ever so slightly fanged teeth.

Orphael chose his next words _very_ carefully, the lines in Udico's face, of anger and stress, prompting great care. After all, as he'd reminded himself before, Udico was not a Mazken to cross, even on a normal day. Much, much less so on a bad one, like today. Like most of this whole week.

The doors at the end of the hall burst open and a female runner came staggering in, breathing hard. "Grakendo! Pinnacle Rock is cut off! Also, we've sighted…it's…" she shook her head, choking as she tried to swallow, and wound up choking on her own spittle as she tried to breathe and swallow at the same time.

"Go on," Udico pressed, more gently than she might have done for the male she'd just shouted at, sweeping over to stand beside the other female, patting her back as Udico prompted the choking woman to raise her arms above her head. "What is it?"

"We think…it's…it's _Jyggalag!"_ The runner spat out, looking horrified, finally lowering her arms, as the coughing stopped. "It can't be anything else!"

"Jyggalag? That's impossible! He was defeated…exiled ages ago! All the records say so!" Udico gave a great exhale of a helplessness she was steadfastly unwilling to admitting to, biting her lip, to keep the exclamation of defeat from falling into the air. Mazken didn't give up. They couldn't. Nor could she see what else to do, except to maintain a brave face, and throw herself at Order's swords when they came. Not the best plan she ever came up with, and certainly a last ditch one. "You're sure?" She asked finally, with the air of a woman grasping at straws.

"I'm afraid so," the runner announced, her expression full of terror and the fatalistic knowledge that _this was the end_.

Orphael's heart sank between the words spoken and the look on Udico's ashen face. Something stirred, clouded deep in memory, like cobweb curtains in a draft. Some sense of nostalgia. If the Prince of Order chose to reassert himself, after centuries, millennia of exile…well, that explained why Lord Sheogorath was gone. Order's first step in asserting itself would be, of course, to remove the Madgod, the very opposite of everything Order stood for. So damnably predictable…and yet how come no one saw this coming? _Any_ of it?

"He's already marching straight across the Isles, the Crystalline Spires are all reactivating! They're _doorways_ possibly to Jyggalag's prison plane! It's where new reinforcements are coming from, in addition to the ones pouting in from the Fringe. He'll…" the runner turned ashen, "He'll be here before sundown!"

With all Udico's focus on the problem at hand, and the runner, Orphael was allowed to escape her bad temper. His own mind rattled with thoughts like lead coins. The more he thought about it, the sicker he felt. As one of the Lord Sheogorath's favored it would be, ultimately, his job to 'volunteer' to take the first spot in any attempt to stop Jyggalag. There was, simply put, no one else.

Only the Mazken and the shattered Aureal forces remained, the tiers of leadership either kidnapped, out of their heads with felldew or simply _gone_, self-preservation overriding loyalty. All in all, not a reassuring force for a last stand against Order. "I will go," he announced. Best to get it over with, as he _was _one of the most highly favored….it was expected.

"You'll _what_?" The two females had forgotten he was still standing there.

How predictable.

Orphael gazed levelly at Udico and the runner. "I said 'I'll go'. To face Order…it's…as one of our Lord's favored, it is my duty, and my honor." No one argued, though he had half-hoped they might. Honorable course or not, it still looked like suicide to him. However, if he didn't volunteer, he'd _be volunteered_ later. Better do it by his own choice than by orders.

He knew he should have stuck to scouting, and stayed away from Court. But no…no, with Order so far inland there was no point, he'd only have led some glorious suicide charge out in the wilderness. Perhaps, he tried to console himself as he left the two women, he might even get in a blow against Jyggalag himself.

Jyggalag stood at the base of the stairs, leading up to the palace of New Sheoth, the heart of the Shivering Isles.

Watching the Prince of Order storming forward, twice as tall as any of his knights, Orphael, dry mouthed, adjusted his helmet. This was it – the last chance. Unsheathing his longsword, he trotted down to the next terrace, his two accompanying teammates with him. "You sure about this?" One hissed, watching as crystalline Order appeared beneath Jyggalag's very feet.

"Kh – what else can we do?" The other demanded.

Shut up, perhaps, so he could think, but fear made Orphael's tongue swell to fill his mouth, and filled his mind with an indistinct sort of noise, prohibiting clear thought.

But it didn't matter. Jyggalag wasn't interested in talking. Something in his mind considered _that Prince is never one for talking_, though he wasn't sure why. This was a first – the first time in millenia Jyggalag had walked…

Wasn't it?

Within moments he'd fought his way before the towering form of Jyggalag, even sunk his sword in up to the hilt, through the Prince's midsection, a brilliant display of quick moving, light footedness, and pinpoint accuracy.

Jyggalag's faceless helmet shifted, crunching to look down at the Mazken. Orphael watched his own reflection, thrown back at him almost perfectly in the facets of Jyggalag's…armor? _Hide?_

Pain shot from sword to hand, to shoulder, the instant the sword ceased burying itself in the Daedric Prince, a clout with a massive hand sending Orphael reeling back. It felt as if acid surged through his veins. Orphael barely registered the burned, blackened look of his skin, the way the affected limb trembled with weakness, as if with great age before darkness and sudden searing pain took him.

The first thing you had to remember was not to try and breathe, once consciousness returned. You didn't breathe right away, because you were still underwater – that much memory retained. However, you were also always near the floor, so a strong kick would sent you swiftly upwards, bursting out of the cool water into clean, sweet _air_. And for a Mazken, air was a good thing.

"Ah, there you are…how're you feeling?" The male on duty asked, helping pull his comrade out of the Wellspring of Pinnacle Rock.

"Great…all this dying, drowning, rebirthing is just fantastic," Orphael responded a little dully, blowing water from his lips as moisture sloshed out of the pool along with him, water beading on his skin to run off when the droplets grew too heavy. Of all the rooms in Pinnacle Rock, the Wellspring remained one in which the air hung comfortably against wet skin. The others were, on the whole, kept fairly comfortably cool – and not so friendly to wet skin.

"Well, at least your sense of humor's intact. You're going to need it."

"Ooh…who's in charge now?" Orphael pulled a towel off the stack, securing it firmly around his waist. The sounds of water, the Wellspring, lapped and echoed in the vaulted room of Pinnacle Rock. A safe place.

"Nelrene, for now. Ulfri's still trying to track down Lord Vaelar. He's still missing, we think he's dead."

Orphael shuddered at the thought for the paranoid Dunmer. Something about Vaelar always made Orphael feel the need to keep the Duke in front of him – he remembered that much. "Well, at least I know where I stand with Nelrene. The others?" Surely he hadn't died alone, he knew that much, but splintered memory provided no other details.

"Nope, you're one of the first. Determined bastard." It was a compliment, the other Mazken's grin indicated this.

Orphael gave a barking laugh. "That's right, don't forget it…" he stopped, catching sight of his right arm. Although the flesh there was healed, smooth and healthy, below the elbow it was darker than the rest of his skin, as if somehow stained. Even his nails looked blackened by comparison to the other hand. "How come…" he asked slowly, examining his hand perplexedly. Strange, that such an injury carried over. "…so many are dead?" Unease moved through him like an unseen creature in deep water.

"I don't know," his colleague responded. "Some big fight – Lord Sheogorath's put it right, though. New Sheoth seems to be intact just…" the record-keeper trailed off, a furrow appearing between his brows.

"Just what?" Orphael demanded sharply. The feeling of unease bothered him. He had forgotten something, he knew. They always did – but this time it was something _important_.

"Just…I dunno. I seem to remember it being a little closer to the Rock, maybe it's just faulty memory." His companion shrugged. "I'm sure it's right where it ought to be. Must still be woozy from the trip back." He gave an uneasy laugh.

"Maybe," Orphael grunted, blue eyes gleaming vividly in the gloom. "Well, let's go see what kind of trouble Nelrene's getting us into, eh?"

"Careful Orphael," his friend warned. "She's in one of her moods."

Orphael smirked, stretching to help limber up stiff muscles. "When is Nelrene not? She's as temperamental as an Aureal, that one," and fascinated by _pain _– though not usually her own – so the rumors indicated. Shaking his head, Orphael headed for the armory. There was no way in the Isles he was going to see Nelrene in just a towel. It'd give her ideas, and Nelrene was one of those Mazken who should not be allowed to _get_ ideas.

Orphael might have a tolerance for pain, but it was not something he enjoyed.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: The Altmer

-- 4 E Year 1 --

The Apocrypha of Hermaeus Mora sprawled for miles in every direction – though from the outside it looked like a rather plain building, by comparison to some Daedric structures. Azura clicked her tongue softly as she strode towards the main door, unsurprised to see one of Hermaeus Mora's attendants waiting patiently for her.

The Altmer stood at the doorway to the Apocrypha, her hands folded inside the sleeves of her habit-like robe. As with all things in Hermaeus Mora's realm, she looked oddly without pallor, rendered in shades of gray – except for her eyes. The eyes caught Azura by surprise – one was a clear shade of vivid blue, the other dark brown. Except for the eyes, the Altmer bended into the structure behind her, easily overlooked by the inattentive.

"You come to see my master, Mistress." The note of certainty told Azura the mer already knew why she was here. "And you are expected. Please, walk this way." With this and a slight bow at the waist, the mer turned, her soft gray robes fluttering gracefully as she turned into the doorway of the Apocrypha, walking through the apparently solid gray door.

The mer led Azura through the long halls, the winding corridors and the veritable forests of bookshelves. The Apocrypha looked like some massive mausoleum for knowledge, the sounds of sand slipping through hourglasses, and pages ruffling provided a soft buzz of background noise, occasionally punctuated by yelps, cries of shock or delight, and the occasional scream of despair. Over everything a smell of dust and dark secrets lingered, though there was no real dust in the Apocrypha – the Attendants would not allow it to settle.

Hermaeus Mora's attendants, unique individuals gathered like odd rocks by a child, moved about, all dressed in the uniform gray habit, all rendered in gray tones, except for their eyes, which seemed to burn luminous and vivid in their faces. "Here, madam," the Altmer stopped by a massive set of double doors, producing a small hourglass on a glittering chain, suspended from her belt. The elf turned it twice, then put it back in her pocket, and pushed on the doors, which slid open, rumbling as they went.

Definitely a trick of the Apocrypha, Azura decided, no Altmer was ever that strong.

"Master? The Lady of Dawn and Twilight, and all In-Between Times is here to see you." The Altmer announced softly into the darkness, as if waking her master from sleep – though all present knew Hermaeus Mora didn't actually sleep.

With that, the Altmer bowed to Azura, who stepped through the doors, which rolled shut of their own accord.

Lahallia turned, rubbing her gloved hands together as if cold. Now that Azura was out of sight, she leaned against the wall, massaging her temples, feeling the swell of Vision pressing against her eyes, which she had fought against ever since the Daedric Lord had come near her. Only in the Apocrypha did she stand a chance of resisting Vision when it came.

Hermaeus Mora wasn't one to trigger such reactions. That was another blessing of living in the Apocrypha, but Lahallia wondered why she hadn't expected such a reaction to the visiting Daedric Lord.

Pushing herself off the wall, Lahallia wandered deep into the heart of the Apocrypha, pausing long enough to check on several of what the Attendants called 'the Detainees' – not true attendants, but mortals snared by Hermaeus Mora, for one reason or another, or by their own folly. Some people simply did not take direction well.

Morian Zenas, for one, lost to madness for daring to traverse the Daedric Realms, trying to plumb their secrets against the wishes of the Master. A very nice old man – if doomed to wander the Apocrypha forever, for having dared to try and unravel Vaermina's secrets (and more than that, Lahallia suspected, for having escaped the Daedric Lord in the first place). Perhaps it was not such a horrible fate, she reasoned, watching him pore over a book with apparently blank pages - the Attendants trained themselves to simply _not see_ the contents of the books in the Apocrypha, lest they fall prey to the tomes they were bound to care for.

_Knowledge is power, and power is dangerous._ This litany took on an uncomfortably literal form in the Apocrypha.

Lahallia checked the hourglass again, before she put it back into her robes, returning to her study of Zenas, though without really seeing him. Tamriel was, she knew, in turmoil – she'd dreamed of it for weeks, they all had. She knew Azura had as much to do with this as Mehrunes Dagon, though Azura took the stance opposing Dagon…and Azura's appearance here coincided with signs hard to see. Lahallia was not yet curious enough about these events that she felt the need to try and coax Visions, but she was curious, nonetheless.

Although, the Altmer suspected, there was at once more and less to the tale of Daedric interferences in Tamriel than was immediately apparent. It was not, however, for mortals to delve into the matters, meddling, and machinations of the Daedric Lords. A lowly pawn did not raise its status on the chessboard through reckless bravery, but through careful strategy. And Lahallia had no desire to expose herself to excessive dangers by displaying either reckless bravery or careful strategy. Her strategy was to remain here, in the Apocrypha, where it was safe, where Vision remained relatively controlled. That was the end of it.

A moment later she turned, heading quickly back towards the massive double doors, keenly aware the hourglass in her pocket was almost ready to run out. One did not serve a Daedric Lord without learning a little of his moods, and most of the Attendants – several more of whom wordlessly joined her – were sensitive to many things, in particular their master's mood. In this case, the hourglass was less of a real time piece – the sand never fell the same speed – and more a way to keep track of where she needed to be, though she had never managed to explain how it told where but not when to an outsider. The Apocrypha was, Lahallia had long ago concluded, tucked somewhere between the sands of time, between the tick and tock on a clock, both in and out of Time itself. The hourglass itself, little more than a bauble to order the servants to their Master's fancy and convenience.

Azura was just stepping free of Hermaeus Mora's audience chamber when the Attendants arrived. In her hands rested a book she had not carried when she first appeared, of this Lahallia was certain. However, the Altmer also knew better than to ask impertinent questions. That was how one Attendant lost an ear – Hircine, seeking information, had bitten it clean off when asked a question he did not like. Only a skilled mage had managed to give the unfortunate Khajiit a magical replacement, though the effect was purely cosmetic.

Lahallia shuddered: deep wisdom and deeper knowledge prevent her from losing her ears!

"I bring knowledge in return for your master's favor," Azura held up the book and a collective shiver ran through the clustered mortal attendants. Unlike most of the Daedric Lords, Hermaeus Mora's own breed of servants remained conspicuously and eerily absent, their duties carried out by his collected band of mortals. "Handle it carefully, for it is very dangerous."

"The Mysterium Xarxes," rasped an Argonian, his eyes suddenly blank, "one of a kind, the book of Lord Dagon, long coveted by the master…unique in all the Planes." The other Attendants listened in silence as the Argonian continued in this vein for some time, giving a condensed history of the artifact, before he suddenly collapsed to his knees, all tension gone from his shoulders. A moment later, two of his fellows reached out and wordlessly helped him back to his feet.

"I shall take it, and see that it is filed, Master Azura," the Altmer began, then stopped. She could feel the swirl of malevolent magicka about the book, reminiscent of the unique Plane to which it belonged. The Mysterium Xarxes also sported a dusky violet band, like thick ribbon, which Lahallia suspected prevented Mehrunes Dagon from reclaiming that which was rightfully his, Azura's own magicka acting as a shield.

Azura looked at the Altmer's hands, as the Altmer hesitated before actually taking the book, as though she feared it would burn her. Gloves. And in the Apocrypha, gloves meant only one thing, and it was not a concern for getting fingerprints where fingerprints shouldn't be, or even to protect the Attendants from handling anything with similar properties to the Mysterium Xarxes. It was the mark of a Seer, or some kind of a Sensitive, the gloves helping to dampen touch-triggered visions. Here in the Apocrypha, a Seer's gift might be tempered, lessened or even controlled…

"No," Azura smiled at the Altmer. "No, you shall come with me. I have a task for you."

Lahallia's mouth went dry as she bowed deeply before the Daedric Lord. For a fleeting moment she had an impression of plans, many plans, all woven together. Plans and the threads of human destiny…all of which were leading back to the world she chose to remember only distantly, like a dream mercifully faded with time, touched by too many hands, imprinted with too many fingers. A world too vibrant, too full of things to See, too many triggers for the so-called Gift…and the call to lose oneself in the flow of Vision, and surrender sanity.

For a moment Lahallia almost gave up the fight and let the Visions swarm over her, like bees onto clover, fragmented glimpses of what must be, what might be, and rarely, what came before.

Fear filled the Altmer's heart like cold water as she fell into Azura's wake, pushing the Visions to bay, knowing it would do her no good to dig in her heels, or beg to be allowed to remain behind, protected and safe within the Apocrypha. It took restraint not to let the tears gather in her eyes, but her face clearly showed she did not want to go.

With a resigned wave of her hand, her robes vanished, replaced by the more practical garb worn by Attendants who needed to retrieve things from outside the Apocrypha, or when things were released by the untrained or the unwary.

Like the vampire ancient, freed from his tome-like tomb, _The Catalogue Nocturnal_. The screams of the several attendants he'd sucked dry before the rest had stopped him, before the survivors had forced him back into his paper cage still echoed distantly in the still air of the Apocrypha. Even with great care taken by the Attendants, rescues sometimes became necessary. In the case of the freed ancient, a new vampire ancient was needed to complete the catalogue.

"I have a job for you, Seer." Azura announced, a little surprised by the emotion so clearly stamped upon the elf's face. She had expected more composure. Then again, perhaps it was just as well. When one could not hide one's thoughts, one learned not to try. Hermaeus Mora was not someone from whom his servants could easily hide things, even their simplest emotions.

"My Lord?" It was always best to use the most common address to a Daedric Lord. She knew Azura was – for all intents and purposes – female, and tended to stay that way. Unlike Mephala, who couldn't seem to make up his-her mind as to which he-she preferred to be. Hermaeus Mora didn't even bother with a fixed form – Hermaeus Mora, like knowledge, simply _was_. If the effigies were any indication…male or female simply didn't come into it, and 'it' sounded too impolite.

"You have the gift of a Seer, do you not?" Azura asked, looking down at the Altmer, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it from the mer anyway. Even though the elf was tall like all her race, the Daedric Prince dwarfed her.

"I do, my Lord." Lahallia did succeed in keeping the bitterness out of her voice. She did not consider it much of a gift, but did not consider it prudent to argue with Azura, either.

"Some say the Seers also possess the Seeds of Madness." Azura mused, her shapely mouth curving into a smile, inviting the Altmer to cast an opinion. No, Azura decided, the Altmer did not want to go _anywhere_. Which was a very boring existence – this might just turn out to be a favor for the little bookworm. A slim change, but a chance nonetheless. Mortals did defy the odds, every so often, after all.

Lahallia did not miss the way the words were spoken, capital letters and deep meaning. "That is so."  
It was why she joined Hermaeus Mora's followers to begin with, when the devotees of the Nine could not help her, told her to be grateful for the Gift…how they had vainly tried to logic with a terrified girl, plagued by what was, what would be, what simply _could_ be. When she was cast aside...by others.

But the Master's people had understood, had given her sanctuary, trained her to ward herself against Vision. Many years had she walked, collecting knowledge, had even found herself blessed for a short time with the _Oghma Infinium_ itself...before joining the ranks of the Attendants.

"That is why you petitioned to join the Attendants here, is it not?" Azura asked as they reached the doors out of the Apocrypha.

"It is." Sometimes, though, she wondered about this. Perhaps Hermaeus Mora simply liked keeping the Seer-Attendants like a prized herd, to tap the secrets of Vaermina's realm of dreams, nightmares and visions. After all, their Gift would make Vaermina think they belonged to her, in her realm of influence.

Hermaeus Mora had no sense of humor, so far as anyone was aware, and none of the Attendants dared to ask, if thumbing his metaphorical nose at Vaermina was the reason for the Seers. Not when there were places like The Pit deep in the Apocrypha where, were one pushed into it, one could fall forever, never hitting bottom, never dying, simply _stuck_ midway between brink and bottom.

Much like the Apocrypha and Time, the Altmer mused, only the Apocrypha didn't fall, per se.

"Well, I have need of your gifts, but not on Nirn." Azura watched the Altmer's expression.

Lahallia almost sighed in relief, but resisted the impulse, though her expression looked at once more puzzled, but vastly relieved. It was never _that_ easy, but Nirn was a frightening place, where Vision came like charging herd animals without regard for any two-legged creature in their path. "May I ask where I am being sent, my Lord?"

Azura stopped, at the boundary of the Apocrypha's lands. It was not so much a boundary, so much as where the flat gray plane extended on, possibly forever, with nothing to break up the scenery. "I'm sending you to the Shivering Isles. Sheogorath has hatched yet another mad scheme, and I wish it kept in check."

Lahallia's blood chilled, though this time not with the shadow of implication she received from the Daedric Lord. Her face went chalky, a feat considering how pale she was from so many years in the Apocrypha. Lahallia suspected, though she could not prove it and would never voice it, that Azura had probably _influenced_ this crackpotted scheme of the Madgod's, and meant to continue influencing it via a mortal agent.

Worse than Nirn – Sheogorath's Madhouse, where if it didn't try to eat you, it would definitely try and kill you. Some things there weren't fussy about whether the food was alive or not…and yet, it was a place of some curiosity to the Master.

Lahallia glanced back at the Apocrypha, the large square building topped with something one might have called an effigy of Hermaeus Mora – her reasoning for the belief that when it came to the question of 'male or female' Hermaeus Mora might just defy it so as to be unique. The effigy looked like a strange squid, some lobster-clawed sea creature. Even in stone, it raised the hair on the back of the Altmer's neck.

Dry mouthed but audibly, Lahallia uttered the word for 'book' in the cipher used by the Attendants, to discuss the knowledge they cared for, which also allowed them to speak freely without setting anything loose, or burning anything up inadvertently. A blank book appeared in her hand, along with a quill made of bronze.

"All ready for your work then," Azura smiled, recognizing an Apocrypha's Attendant prepared to fill their other function.

Collecting knowledge. And with the nature of Sheogorath's realm, and his dislike of the chronically sane, the Altmer would take it as a given her mission was to do whatever Azura, and whatever Sheogorath wanted, to document the Madhouse, and come back to the Apocrypha to deliver the collected catalogue and record. Just like the old, old days, Lahallia thought dryly, though part of her experienced a pang of interested enthusiasm that surprised her.

Quite bypassing the unpleasant promise of uncontrolled Vision, some part of her longed to get out of the gray, soft-sound filled dusty Apocrypha, to see something vibrant with her own eyes, and not her Inner Eye.

"Well, let's discuss your mission then," Azura smiled. "Have you a name?"

"Yes, My Lord. They call me Lahallia."

--Author's Notes Appended—

Big notes, as they contain information pertaining to this and subsequent chapters.

I know the article at Oblivion Wiki says 'filled with ghosts', but I took some creative license and considered it from the perspective there are very few accounts of Hermaeus Mora's realm, and a living being rendered in grayscale might well be mistaken for a ghost. The idea of the Seers in Hermaeus Mora's realm appealed to me as well – if it's a giant library, then surely Seers could be called living tomes of knowledge. And it would explain why he wanted souls for his quest in Oblivion, rather than taking out his followers. This goes along with the fact I give the Daedra a bigger part in the events of the Main Quest then the actual gameplay allows. You'll notice a cameo appearance by a game-referenced character in here. (Also, I liked the concept of this particular Plane.)

I would also like to distinguish 'traditional' Sight from Martin's, in that Martin inherited it from his Dragonblood. Lahallia's is simply a different brand of Vision, hence the side effects: mere mortals were not meant to see the future or possible aspects. Martin's Aedric connections – for the purpose of this story – temper the side effects. As there are so many theories about Sight, Vision, ect, I will attempt to balance 'classic' elements, along with my own twists.

As far as getting a hold of the Mysterium Xarxes…well, Azura strikes me as the sort who wouldn't want the Oblivion fiasco repeated, hence, it should be placed in the biggest library in existance. Unread and _safe_. Or safe enough. As a Daedra who always gets her way, I can see her getting her hands on Mehrunes Dagon's book, while he pitches fits about her interferences.

The mention of trapped souls in books is an allusion to a unique soul trap spell, which the Attendants use when they catalogue things – that is, they take a sample of a species to add to their library, rather than simply writing about it. They find cataloguing something as it is, instead of as they see it to be a more accurate means of collecting information. This last bit is not canon, but my own innovation.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: Maps and Missions

3 E., Late Year 1

Orphael leaned back in his chair, rubbing tired eyes as his shoulders protested too long in the uncomfortable reading chair. Around him, the silence of the library, deep in the bowels of Pinnacle Rock, pressed against his pointed ears.

It was spectacular. Amazing. He looked at the two maps again, one relatively new, the other much, much older, and frailer. At first glimpse they looked like two completely different places, and yet, if one looked closely, one could see several similar characteristics – the Hill of Suicides smack in the middle of the Isles, the Madgod's Boot, the Laughing Coast, all surrounded by the unending, unbroken Sea of Oblivion.

And yet, on the new map, the Capitol of New Sheoth lay near the Enjaen Coast, in the southernmost hills of the Jester's Spine. The old map, however, showed the capitol further north and farther inland, in the mountains themselves, with the stronghold off farther to the west and Pinnacle Rock nearer the capital.

_I dunno. I seem to remember it being a little closer to the Rock, maybe it's just faulty memory. _That was what Kyzzik had said. And here was some form of possible proof. But _why_? And why so much damage? Yes, the Isles repaired quickly, yes, the locals came trickling back – mingled with new faces of those invited in. But _why_ should it be so? If there was such a great battle, why did no one remember…?

Because surely _someone_ would have survived to remember...wouldn't they?

Obviously Lord Sheogorath had prevailed, of course he had and yet…the circular attempt at logic made Orphael's headache worsen, blood pounding insistently behind his eyes. He knew better than to read in the dark, but had gotten distracted before lighting the room properly.

Orphael rose, waving his magelight to glow more strongly, an odd shade of green that did not make his eyes ache in the otherwise dim room. Landmarks did not, Orphael scowled, simply get up and walk around…not even _here_, of all places.

"Did you find something interesting, young man?"

Orphael instinctively reached for the sword by his chair, but looking up found Lord Sheogorath's Chamberlain Haskill standing in front of a blank wall, as if he had simply walked through it.

"Just doing a bit of research," Orphael answered slowly.

He did not like Haskill, though he would quickly admit it was no real fault of the chamberlain's. As far as Orphael knew or cared there were men, there were mer, there were many forms of Daedra, and there were Daedric Lords, and each looked like something specific, or had certain traits by which they preferred to be defined. One didn't confuse an Aureal and an Auroran, just as one didn't confuse a Mazken and a Dremora. Azura liked to be a female, Mehrunes Dagon a male, and Hermaeus Mora – Orphael shuddered – a squid.

However, Haskill looked like a human man, but he _felt_, his presence _dictated _that _he was not human. _The contradiction Haskill presented made Orphael's skin crawl. It was hard enough keeping some semblance of order – though no one would ever use _that_ word – in the Isles without Daedra who masqueraded as humans…or humans who were halfway to being turned into Daedra, or whatever Haskill actually was.

As far back as Orpahel could remember, in the farthest splinter of memory, Orphael remembered Haskill. A permanent fixture on Lord Sheogorath's court. Neither in favor, nor out of it, neither completely necessary, nor so unnecessary Lord Sheogorath had no use for him. Neither this, nor that – the only thing about Haskill that made sense: a lack of sense.

Haskill walked forward and looked at the maps, then looked at Orphael. "Playing cartographer, are we?" he asked. This Mazken was, he knew, too curious for his own good, and not unintelligent. A deadly combination.

"No. Just thinking."

"An excellent pastime." Haskill reached out and pulled the old map towards him. "But I think," he looked up, catching the Mazken's eyes, "you'll find this map is not a map." Haskill's voice took on a tone laden with Daedric magicka, a twofold sort of magicka, like red enthusiasm and dark green despair twisted inextricably together. "It's a toy. A game. A fancy our Lord Sheogorath had drawn up, to see what his kingdom could look like, if he ever decided to rearrange it."

The Mazken's blue eyes had gone blank, the pupil turning brilliantly green, as if something in his eyes were catching and reflecting his magelight, like a cat's eyes reflected normal light. At his shoulder, his magelight grew to barely a flicker, as if the power sustaining it had suddenly slacked to the barest most tenuous trickle. "Of course." Orphael answered unblinkingly. "The Mazken live to serve Lord Sheogorath. If he wishes to rearrange his empire, we will be ready to rearrange ourselves, to better protect it."

"Very good." Haskill raised a bony hand and snapped his long fingers.

The Mazken flinched, as if he had just been struck, then groaned, rubbing his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He did not see the old map's contents change, until it looked like an ink painting of a country, rather than a proper map.

That should take care of the last of the little details, Haskill decided. All the pesky details, and only one person in the Realm able to manage them all. What a life to lead.

Orphael's head swam. He remembered Haskill talking, but not what the…the _contradiction_ had actually said. His head continued to pound. Blast these headaches. He _knew _better than to read in a room too dark…

Prompted by that thought, his magelight burst into three smaller lights, all of which swelled to the size of grapefruits and gave off powerful light which was easy on tired eyes.

"I was saying," Haskill prompted, as the Mazken looked up, eyes once again blue with black pupils, and green glints from the magelights bobbing around his head, "that Duke Vaelar has been replaced. Duchess Syl will be taking over his quarters in New Sheoth. Lord Sheogorath wishes you to escort her from her current place in Fellmoor."

"Duchess…Syl?"

"Yes, Duchess Syl," Haskill replied almost tonelessly. "Surely you remember _her_?"

"Of course." Orphael lied, though he suspected Haskill saw through the fib.

Haskill sighed. It was so frustrating trying to get the Mazken to do _anything_ when it required memory from beyond their current incarnation. Something about the Waters of Oblivion, to which they went when they died and from whence they returned to the realm corroded their memories, fragmenting them. The price, Haskill knew, of sanity in a realm of insanity.

Doomed, in a way, to make and repeat the same mistakes, in hopes this time the mistake did not kill them, enabling them to finally learn.

The price, he supposed, of representing law and some semblance of…he did not like to use the word, so he did not. "Duchess Syl happened to be Duke Vaelar's High Inquisitor." Haskill prompted. "During this period of restructuring, Lord Sheogorath has decided to promoted her."

"Yes, the paranoid one." Orphael nodded, knowing this word could apply to half the residents of Dementia and most Mazken. He preferred, however, when speaking about his fellow Mazken to use the word 'cautious'.

"Yes, the paranoid one. You'd best get to it. Lord Sheogorath is throwing a party. He wants all has Courtiers there. I believe," Haskill sighed, "he's acquired a clown for the occasion." He had never, in all these centuries, understood his Lord's preoccupation with clowns…or maybe he _did_. They were, Haskill mused, unbelievably cheerful and all the more unnerving for it. It was hard to tell whether a clown better suited the Manic side of the Isles or the Demented.

With a sigh Haskill dismissed the notions entirely. When one worked for the Madgod, one learned when not to expound on lunacies. There was no point. _No point but the one your head makes_…the stray thought flickered across Haskill's mind, an echo of his Lord, something Sheogorath had said before, or would say in the future. He dismissed this as well, another occupational hazard.

All Haskill knew was that if Lord Sheogorath wanted a clown, he would have one. And if the clown wound up chewing on the courtiers, and trying nibble off their hands so he could juggle _them_ instead of something harmless like apples or pears or even cheeses…well. As long as Lord Sheogorath was happy, the courtiers would line up to volunteer their hands.

It still made a mess on the carpets, and it was Haskill who was responsible for making sure the mess did not set in. Joy unbounded, a chamberlain's life.

For some strange reason, Orphael's skin prickled when Haskill mentioned 'clowns', as if it remembered biting teeth. "I'll see to it immediately, Chamberlain."

When Orphael looked up from his perfunctory bow, he found Haskill was gone.

Looking at the fake map he shook his head. It _would_ be nice, this new setup for the Isles. It put Lord Sheogorath so much closer to the conscientious, never ending watchfulness of the Mazken, his truest and greatest servants.

It would also cause a great deal of trouble, particularly for Dementia. They so relied on certain concrete facts. If a normal mind would snap when a Plane rearranged itself, he worried for what would happen to a madness-blessed mind.

--3. E, Year 430--

Nelrene was in a bad mood, as she threw her gear down on her old desk. Seeing Orphael smirking at her from the doorway did not improve her mood in the least. In fact, it took a lot of restraint not to throw something at him, just to watch him jump or take injury. "You? Again? I told you no!" she snapped before even asking what it was he wanted.

Orphael snorted, watching as Nelrene continued to check her gear. One of the many Mazken called to the New Sheoth Palace, at the request of Duchess Syl, Nelrene would not be ruling the roost much longer. And Orphael fully intended not to ask Nelrene for permission to do the thing he wanted. He would ask Udico – the infinitely more reasonable Mazken replacing Nelrene as Pinnacle Rock's administrator – for permission to conduct his research.

"I'm not here to ask anything of you, Grakella." Orphael answered. "I was asked," which meant he was _ordered_, "to make sure you got underway safely. This is," he added, "at the whim of the newly instated Grakella Udico."

Nelrene grit her teeth, and not because her rank and position was suddenly rearranged. For the past five years she had served as the Grakella of Pinnacle Rock and had done it well. That, she knew, was why she was going to New Sheoth. New Sheoth already had a Grakedrig serving as the Captain of the Guard for House Dementia. Therefore she must and would accept the post and the wider responsibilities as the Second Officer.

The last Second Officer had died when Syl thought Grakella Ulanna was plotting against her life. It was certainly not the first time Syl's guards needed fresh faces – though when it came to that, Syl tended to forget whom she had murdered routinely. Ulanna had not yet come back from banishment via the Wellspring, though, which saddened Nelrene. Ulanna was a friend, after all.

What made her grit her teeth was the fact it was Orphael sent with her - or more likely, he would see her as far as Fellmoor before returning to Pinnacle Rock.

Nelrene tugged the straps on her bag of gear, trying to ignore the male standing before her. Something about Orphael had always gotten under her skin – whether it was his true intention or not. She could not adequately explain it, so she generally did not mention it, for fear of being thought irrational, and finding her abilities to serve the Isles and Lord Sheogorath in question. Still, when he smirked at her like that, as he was doing now, it made her want to chew his bottom lip off.

Orphael was not pleased with the orders either. He knew _why_ Udico had elected to give Nelrene an escort partway: to make sure Nelrene didn't think of something she needed or wanted to do, and double back to do it, before getting to the Capital. Nelrene tended to find herself fixated with the minutia, and it was part of her obsessive nature to want to make sure all the minutia was taken care of before she left to do something else.

Orphael understood the obsessive nature of the Mazken, and deep down was very glad his obsessions tended to be more practical than things he couldn't control. It was still the same topic it was last decade, and the one before that, all the way back to the last time he'd found himself suddenly dead, and climbing back out of the Wellspring several floors down.

_What are they? _The mysterious structures. In the last thirty years, they proved relatively unremarkable, his research into them preserved in writing so banishment and recall could not totally destroy his work. But what were they _for_? They felt so very alien and yet…not.

Nelrene looked up from her pack, still ill of temper, to find Orphael staring into nothing, his smirk still in place, but less pronounced. Looking closely she could see the tiny scar at one corner of his mouth, which gave him part of his characteristic smirk. All Mazken had scars, many believed they had had them when they first climbed out of the Waters of Oblivion to serve Lord Sheogorath. Proof of battle skills.

Wounds from powerfully magical objects sometimes carried over, too. Nelrene herself still had the mark from the time she found herself with Goldbrand rammed through her midriff. She remembered the blade, remembered the injury, still had the scar…but did not remember the face of her attacker, or why she had found herself in such a position in the first place.

This was not, after all, Azura's Moonshadow, where all things were perfect.

Whatever his personality flaws were, Nelrene could not entirely squash the notion that he wasn't bad-looking, as far as Mazken went.

When Nelrene stomped off, pushing past Orphael, the Mazken shook his head and followed her out. The trip to Fellmoor would not take that long – time was sometimes only relative, dependent on Sheogorath's mood. He had taken a trip from Pinnacle Rock to New Sheoth in under a day, once, and the return trip took almost two weeks. For no apparent reason.

Then again, what did one expect in the realm of Madness?

Still, Orphael half-wished he was going all the way to New Sheoth. He loved the streets of Crucible, especially in the evenings. It was always worth a trip to Sickly Bernice's Taphouse for a drink. He knew very well that her 'illness' was less an illness and more a form of paranoia. But it did not stop him from liking her – though, he did not like to spend too much time in her company. The constant sniffling and coughing made him want to cough and sniffle too.

Orphael snorted, not needing to squint once he and Nelrene left the darkness of Pinnacle Rock. The hazy air of Dementia, today chill and humid filled his lungs like sludge, but he did not cough. After all, this was still home.

The air in Mania would make him cough. And sneeze – all that pollen, all those spores.

--Author's Notes Appended--

As far as the stratification of the Mazken and Aureals, I'm using the classes listed on the UESP. The Mazken orders are, from lowest to highest, as follows. Kiskengo, Kiskella, Kiskedrig, Grakendo, Grakella, Grakedrig, Autkendo and may be listed with an additional title (for purposes of differentiation from others with the name designation (First Officer of the Watch Grakella X, Second Officer, Grakella Y, etc).

For the purposes of the story, Autkendo is a rank used only in time of war, the Mazken High Commander. Grakedrig refers (but is not limited to) to the Captain of the Guard of the House of Dementia and the Commander of Pinnacle Rock. Grakendo and Grakella may be thought of as officers or specialists while Kiskengo, Kiskella, and Kiskedrig may be thought of as the enlisted. The Aureals are similarly stratified. I will probably at some point take liberty with ranks and swap them. Remember: Mazken and Aureals live to serve Sheogorath, so they will promote, demote, and regulate themselves based on the ability to serve the Isles and Sheogorath, and with regard to their societal structure.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: A Cold, Hard World

Lahallia stepped free of Azura's door, between the Apocrypha and Nirn. She was glad she didn't simply collapse the moment she was fully through, the bright light overhead searing her eyes, turning her surroundings from vivid color to unmerciful white. Too long in the Apocrypha's gray tones made one forget sunlight, and the real potency of it. The next thing that hit her, as she leaned against the frigid base of Hermaeus Mora's shrine, was the cold – for like the shades of gray, the Apocrypha had no discernible weather, or temperature. Everything simply _was, _and whatever it was caused a little disorientation in the beginning, but perception quickly accepted _it_ _was_, therefore no distraction or obstacle to the Attendants doing their work.

Squinting through her mismatched watering eyes, Lahallia blinked as involuntary tears slipped down her cheeks, as shadows beyond the painful brightness became solid, discernible shapes. It took a moment for her ears to adjust to more than a few words not of the Attendant's Cipher, to recognize the Cyrodiilic dialect. "Lahallia," she answered when the question of her identity finally penetrated the fog of perception. "Lahallia Kiranni."

If Azura was the Lady of Dusk and Dawn, and All Between Times, why, oh why, couldn't she have opened a doorway to Nirn _during _one of those darker hours? Lahallia raised one pale hand to shade her smarting eyes. Despite the cold, the sunlight seemed more potent for it. However, her eyes continued to adjust, and her ears also, until she could parrot back – to discernibly human or mer-ish figures – the necessity for her to travel from the shrine to Bravil, at which point she would pick up the next leg of her journey.

It wasn't until her statement was greeted with blank looks and soft murmurs that Lahallia realized she had just conveyed all this in the Cipher, which was as good as a native tongue these days. Slowly, thinking out the words before she said them, she repeated her request for directions, and this time got responses. Finding her wits, she cast a spell to cloud herself in shadow, which took the edge off the light currently rendering her unable to see.

Bravil lay, she knew, in the Niben Bay, in the southern part of the Empire – a shattered Empire currently in the hands of the Elder Council and the Blades. An empire caught in confusion, now that everything they knew, everything they trusted in, that allowed them to continue on with their lives, basking in the security of it all…gone. Broken lives, broken spirits, broken hearts – those would be only the beginning, she decided dryly. The question was not 'what do we do now' so much as whether the empire galvanized itself to rise from the ashes, or whether it slid into the ruins, like a sinking ship on stormy seas.

A story Lahallia had read many times, in the tapestry of human fate and history, though unlike so many, the Champion in this case actually lived to see the split in the road: rebirth or ruin. Though, given accounts, she herself had not come though whole and unscathed, but as broken as the Empire she had defended with so much dedication. Her path, the choice of whether it skirt death or openly court it, was up for much debate, for Hermaeus Mora's worshipers at the Shrine were quick to comment and slow to stop talking. Those with knowledge – outside the Apocrypha, at least – are wont to share it.

Unlike most, Lahallia travelled by night, choosing to take her leave of her fellows as the sun sank red beneath the clouds, and cold bit deeper into her skin. Summer was several months under way, but this far north, hidden in the Jerall Mountains it was always cold. By the time she started on her way, her eyes had adjusted more or less to the light of the sun.

Pulling her cloak tighter, Lahallia followed The Seeker's Way, the name for the hidden path curling from the wild lands around Bruma to the hidden shrine, one of Cyrodiil's great secrets. Exceedingly fortunate, she thought, that an Attendant's more practical clothing was well-suited to travel and exploration, unlike the robes usually worn within the Apocrypha.

Particularly _un_fortunate was forgetting one had to eat when one existed on Nirn, for now Lahallia came to think of it, she had never sat down to supper in the Apocrypha in all her time there. Like everything else there, apparently, she had simply _existed_, between the sands of Time, needing neither food, nor drink. Though oddly enough, she remembered sleeping, remembered her small cot in an out-of-the-way room she shared with another Seer.

The paradox gave her no trouble – when one lived in the Apocrypha, one became used to paradox, or one simply went mad…and where did the mad go? For there were no mad Seers in the Apocrypha. None she knew of, in any case.

Part of her wondered if those who left where somehow transferred to the Shivering Isles and Sheogorath's dominion. Or were they simply filed away, like books in the Apocrypha's depths? Despite the length of Lahallia's tenure, of her seniors' tenures, no one seemed to know exactly how big the complex actually was, how far it spanned, how deep it plumbed…nothing definite.

_It simply is_, she concluded the litany, shivering despite the cloak and the exercise. Reaching into a pocket she found the flat metal of coin – all Attendants carried coin, in case they ended up stuck in Nirn. Perhaps this was why, forgetting one needed to eat to live, outside the Apocrypha's reaches.

The wind whistled, and a wolf howled in the distance. Lahallia immediately checked her weapons, the longsword at her right hip, the knife sheathed behind her, held fast near the small of her back by the belts from which hung a multitude of small devices and pouches. Attendants outside the Apocrypha (or on excursions deep into it) were nothing if not well-prepared.

Unlike the layman's view of the Apocrypha's so-called 'ghosts', the Attendants were more than mages, and far more than simple librarians. Knowledge was power, power was dangerous, and both in the same place…well. One simply didn't prance into those halls without skill and or a guide.

The wolf bayed again, this time farther away, and while the distance eased Lahallia's mind, her hand remained on her sword hilt. One never knew what sort of brigand frequented the lonely places. The time it would take to thwart an attempt to waylay her remained deeply unappealing, particularly when the lights of Bruma flickered in the distance, where the promise of a short rest and a hot meal beckoned.

Sitting in Bruma's tavern – which was not the same tavern she remembered, the last time she visited – Lahallia hunched at the bar, listening attentively as the bartender chattered grimly about current events, under the effects of a subtle charm spell. He kept glancing at her mismatched eyes, Lahallia noticed, though this troubled her very little.

He would stare more avidly had he seen her in the Apocrypha, where all was gray _except_ the eyes.

However, it was in the company of other living creatures she found that life in the Apocrypha had marked her, for in catching her own reflection she found herself as pale as death, her hair rendered white-blonde, too long away from the sun. Lahallia found herself wishing she was back at the Apocrypha. As vast and expansive as the building was, it never gave the impression of being staggeringly huge, and painfully wide open – as the 'real' world did.

"And then there's the…the thing near Bravil," the bartender continued, wiping out a tankard as Lahallia continue to eat her shepherd's pie, slowly despite the fact the sensation of hunger was reasserting itself. Slowly, she reminded herself, lest one eat too fast and sicken, which is not the way to re-acclimate to the world. No, nice and easy, and gather information. That was the only way to start an expedition, of course, with reliable information.

"The 'thing'?" She asked, careful to enunciate, forcing herself to focus on the words she spoke so they would remain intelligible, and in the common tongue. The incident of speaking in the Cipher at the Shrine stayed fresh in her mind, a constant prompt to pay attention not only to what she said but _how_ she said it.

"It's like…like a _door_," the bartender lowered his voice, "appeared in the middle of the Nibenay Bay not long ago."

_And the _Mysterium Xarxes _now rests with my Master_, Lahallia mused. It sounded like the Daedric version of a reprimand – a treasured personal item confiscated as retribution for bad behavior. Only Azura would dare – as the most 'goddess-like' Daedric Lord, she would take an interest in Mehrunes Dagon's mad plan. Surely he hadn't expected everyone to simply sit around playing with their toes?

Or perhaps he had – Mehrunes Dagon made elaborate plans which usually failed for lacking follow through – though this was not something Lahallia had decided herself. It was something Mephala, Hermaeus Mora's actual sibling, had once mentioned dryly while passing through the Apocrypha.

Something about Mephala made the hair on the back of Lahallia's neck stand at attention, and made the tips of her ears tingle – though not in a good way. And despite the fact Azura could be considered 'good' by many standards…Azura was still a Daedric Lord. And she liked to have her way.

No, all this was some grand scheme, and Lahallia knew it would do her no good to try and wriggle out of it. She would simply have to do the best she could, then get back to the Apocrypha as soon as possible. Despite the endless halls of the building itself, Nirn seemed far larger, and more boundless than the great library with its smell of dust and the sounds of books.

Here things were strange: the wood smoke and heavy smell of charring meat hovered thick and greasy in her nostrils. The same smoke made her eyes redden and water. She tended to catch snippets of conversations, all of which had little or nothing to do with her, but which caught her attention like forked lighting in the sky overhead.

And beneath all this, Lahallia found herself nervously, keenly aware of any sign of approaching Vision, praying she would not feel the sudden light-headedness, and praying harder the Visions would not simply break over her like waves over rocks. Lahallia sipped her water, aware of the taste she could only classify as 'old'. Or maybe, she mused darkly, she tasted the mug itself, and not the water.

From Bruma, to the Imperial City, then south to Bravil, Lahallia found existing on her proper Plane more and more exhausting, not the least because of the constant fear that Visions unchecked might swarm back at her like angry wasps. The fear had eased after several days, but distant memory oddly disconcerted to her, as though it belonged to someone else, reminded her of a time when she could scarcely pickup the artifacts necessary for daily work and living without experiencing stark insights. She hoped the Apocrypha might have tempered the so-called gift, but somehow she did not think so.

Before her, the Niben Bay spread gray and slightly choppy, as clouds gathered steely overhead and the smell of rain hung in the warm, heavy air. Towards the middle of the Bay she could see the misty hummock of land at the center, just as Azura had said there would be.

_You will find a door. You must pass through that door…and then we shall see. _

Lahallia set her mouth in a thin line and started forward, calling a spell as she did so, the water around her feet smooth as glass, the waves sublimating beneath the calm spot only to reappear on the other side of it, as if neither Lahallia nor her patch of smooth water were there.

Drizzle began to fall halfway to the island, making Lahallia sweat beneath the layers of travelling clothes, so different from her simple habit-like robe, though the rain didn't touch her, simply pattered as if on a pane of glass suspended above her head. More than once she counted herself fortunate her soft boots were spared the attentions of the water. She knew through study few things plagued a traveler like wet boots.

Nearer and nearer the island loomed, taking shape and form. Oddly enough, the island alone of the wind-whipped bay did not receive any rain, positioned directly below an unnatural round gap in the clouds – nor did it seem to Lahallia to be a proper island – hence why she walked around it twice before finding a ramp leading up from the water, as if expecting people to come that way, though there were no boats.

The rocky ramp-like path leading up to the island's sunny surface gave Lahallia something to consider: growing along it were varieties of mushroom, and other flora which were not indigenous to Nirn. Some she recognized, others she did not, but the indication was this door Azura was so insistent she, Lahallia, should investigate led straight into one of the realms of Oblivion. This in turn made Lahallia wonder, if it was for the sake of acclimating to existing in a sense where one had to remember to eat and drink that she had been forced to travel from the Shrine all the way to this door.

That made sense, so much so Lahallia could even find it in her to be grateful for the thoughtfulness, if not for the long walk and the bright sunlight.

"Another one!" Lahallia had barely stepped from the stony, slightly slimy by the water path onto the pleasantly springy turf when an ill-tempered Imperial Guard made himself known. He looked singularly out of place, more so than she did with her ghostly pallor and unimaginatively gray clothes. A spot of something too real to belong in this place. "Look here, missy…" The guard began, his face drawn into a fierce scowl beneath his helmet, sweat sparkling on his reddened face.

Instinct sensed what his consciousness did not: that this was not a place for the average individual to be.

Lahallia could feel the gusting, playful currents of magicka emanating from the door. She raised a hand, catching one of the currents between her fingers, tangling it like yarn about the pale digits. It buzzed beneath her fingers, at first pleasantly jittery like anticipation, then all of a sudden fearfully jittery like numbness creeping to her elbow before it vanished totally from her touch as if yanked.

Interesting.

"Did you come by boat?" she asked blandly, diffusing the argument before it could start. She really had no intention of wasting her breath on Imperial Legionnaires. Shame on his commanding officer for sending him alone.

"Aye, why?" he scowled, unnerved by the extreme calm the ghostly woman emanated. She was an elf, of course, but he had never seen such an…an _ethereal_ elf, before. She gave the altogether uncomfortable impression she saw everything before her eyes, and more than that. As though she could watch hidden paths and sights twist and wrap around the things he would call 'reality'.

"Because it's no longer there." Lahallia answered, rubbing her hands together thoughtfully, examining the door. The currents of magicka had suddenly inverted, after she had touched them, pulling back into the gate, or trying to. "Do you know where this door leads?" she continued, ignoring the stream of curses issuing from the guard's mouth. Of course he could not – he had no training in the lore by which to identify it. He might feel the Daedric magicka hovering around it, like perfume or the lingering scent of death, but he would not be able to put it into words.

"No, do you?" he asked, still bad tempered.

"Yes." Lahallia examined the gate more closely. It was, she felt, painfully obvious, though she had no idea how much the guard could actually see. With all the magicka floating around like too much pollen on a spring day, it was entirely possible he could not see the gaping maws and the maddened eyes on the hummock of rock, which was no mere hummock of naturally formed stone at all, but an effigy of the gate's owner.

A warning, some might say.

Speaking in the Cipher to one hand, a book of empty pages appearing in her waiting hand, an inked quill of a bronze-looking metal hanging at the ready before her, until she plucked delicately from the air.

The guard took a step back, unnerved by the strangeness of the Altmer, the gibberish she spoke, and the fact the gibberish seemed to have _power_. Something about her unsettled him, as if he were watching a blank spot in the fabric of the world acting of its own free will. In the world, but decidedly separated from it. Glancing at the Gate, he decided it was in his best interests, for now, to simply leave her alone.

"It is a gate bearing the likenesses of Lord Sheogorath, the Madgod: the Manic, the Demented, and the Overlord Unhinged. One may safely assume that it leads to Sheogorath's Madhouse, also known as the Shivering Isles, of which there is no reliable written record," Lahallia announced, mindless of whether she spoke a language the guard understood, scribbling her words in neat, precise letters in her book.

That explained also, she detailed, the dual-feel of the magicka leaking out of it, and why the magicka leaked out the way it did, first reaching out to touch the living things on this side of the gate, then trying to retreat away from so much _normalcy_. Her fear of existing outside the Apocrypha lessened somewhat as interest in her subject of study took over. It was not, after all, as though the Isles were part of Nirn, and she felt fairly competent to survive in Oblivion, so long as she could breathe.

Perhaps not some of the more hostile planes, but the Isles…who knew what sort of curiosities were there?

Lahallia did not remember the fabled expedition to Moonshadow, where the Attendants were welcomed as guests of Lady Azura, and had worn spelled silk veils to protect their eyesight from the blinding influences of that realm. She knew only through stories of the party of Attendants who had followed Hircine through his Planes – only two of whom came back, both nursing injuries. Nor was she present in in the century, the Era gone by, when the cataloging of Sanguine's Planar Pockets took place, from which only the spirit-soaked, skooma stained catalogue was ever recovered, the Attendants vanished into Sanguine's keeping…or into death.

And here was an opportunity to catalogue a Plane…all by herself, which was worrisome for this was usually a group activity, but still. Lahallia smiled as she added a footnote, indicating herself as the recorder of the book. That done she looked up at the gate.

The three faces of Sheogorath comprising the gate – the third of whose mouth served as the actual 'door', flanked by the profiles of one face jovial, the other angry – seemed to watch her, a clever trick of magical construction. Lahallia considered it – she saw a bust like this in the Apocrypha once. The door, however, was giving off magicka again, in ever increasing quantities, which made Lahallia suspect something was happening on the other size. It was not long before she found herself trying not to breathe too much, the smells of heady flowers and something rotten-sweet toying in her nostrils. The harder she tried to ignore the stench –for it worked out to stench – the more pronounced it became – a fascinating phenomenon, even if it made her skin prickle uncomfortably.

"Sheogorath's Madhouse," Lahallia repeated.

"Sheogorath's Madhouse?!" The guard demanded, this time recognizing the words.

"Yes, I'm quite sure it is." Somehow, Lahallia expected madness to smell…differently. Or perhaps it was simply the way the Daedric magicka manifested in Nirn – for she had noted long ago how magicka felt differently between the Planes. Lahallia continued to scribble, a rough sketch of the doorway blossoming under her ever-inked quill. Perhaps not as good as others might have rendered, but her first discipline was not that of an artist.

Lahallia dismissed her book, now understanding part of the reason for her mission here – obviously Hermaeus Mora loaned her to Azura, with the understanding Lahallia would make an accurate record of the Shivering Isles, and the contents thereof. Well, that at least Lahallia could do – she had not expected to be found worthy of such a mission, and it was an important mission, make no mistakes! She had gone on surveys before now, though perhaps nothing as large as an entire Oblivion Plane.

Lahallia felt the change in the magicka leaking from the Door before anything actually happened. The smell changed, and a slight breeze tugged at her clothes. The smell became more pleasant, like wisteria after rain, sweet, cloying and almost seductive. "Look out!" She barked, drawing the first spell to hand that came to mind, as a crack of thunder overhead split her eardrums, so loud, almost inside her head, that she nearly dropped her spell.

Nearly.

Out of the swirling blue-white light and fog that filled the door sprayed further fog, followed by a ragged Dunmer, expelled with the force of an unruly drunk cast from a tavern. The Dunmer landed on hands and feet, his whole body shaking and gleaming with sweat, his breathing ragged.

Lahallia held her spell, eyes fixed on the Dunmer. There was something she could sense, if not see, something _broken_ in his mind. Lahallia felt something in the back of her mind stir, an alertness to a possible trigger for Visions, and she took a step back.

A fight was one of the worst places for the Visions to come.

Getting slowly onto his knees, the Dunmer shook her head as if to clear it.

"Are you all right?" The guard asked, waving Lahallia to keep her distance.

Lahallia considered the subjectivity of the question. By Sheogorath's standards the Dunmer was fine. By the standards here on Nirn, however, the answer was a resounding _no_. The Dunmer caught sight of Lahallia - one hand raised to cradle her spell, as if shielding a candle's flame, the other on her sword hilt - and the guardsman, who had no spell but steel aplenty for anything nasty coming out of the door. It was not, Lahallia belatedly realized, a particularly reassuring thing to see. She also suspected that two blots of such pure normalcy might disorient the Dunmer further.

The Dunmer began to rock slightly, mad eyes gleaming in his sweating face, riveted upon some point past Lahallia's midriff as he seemed to work himself into some sort of manic fit. "I won't go back! I won't go back! You cannot make me…" The Dunmer gave a crazed giggle, his breathing erratic.

Lahallia did not need the guard's warning to react. She was ready when the Dunmer suddenly launched himself at her.

Lahallia dodged nimbly, planting a hand firmly against the Dunmer's shoulder as he sailed past her. The spell sunk deep into his flesh as Lahallia stepped nimbly out of the way, letting the Dunmer continue through the air, carried by his own momentum. The Dunmer gave a squeak as the spell took, his limbs turning to jelly, then crumbled in a boneless heap on the ground, chest heaving, breathing ragged, asleep but otherwise unharmed.

Lahallia gave a strong exhale. Thank goodness the attendants in their first - she used the word 'term' - in the Apocrypha studied the use of sword and spell, learned how to make connections between the two, so panic could not rob them of the ability to protect themselves.

"Is he dead?" The guard asked sharply, hurrying over to the fallen Dunmer, sheathing his sword as he went.

"Of course not," Lahallia answered. "That would be uneth…"

The world suddenly pitched. Lahallia's posture went rigid and she toppled, unable to maintain her balance, her eyes wide and riveted on something in the round patch of blue sky above, the clouds swirling at tis edges. The air in her lungs contracted, her throat locked up.

_The little man. The funny little man who isn't…can't be _real_. _

The Vision fragment shattered a moment later as a voice cut across the Vision-imposed whirl of sound and thought.

"UNWORTHY!"

Lahallia screamed, her hands flying to her ears, trying to block out the sound that was in them, in her head, echoing in every empty space, booming like thunder, only more inescapable.

"UNWORTHY, UNWORTHY!"

Lahallia did not hear the soldier's long sword drop, or the strangled cry of the rapidly-regaining consciousness Dunmer. The voice pulsed with Daedric magicka, twisted by its manifestation within the boundaries of Nirn. "USELESS MORTAL MEAT. WALKING BAG OF DUNG!" The rage rang out, palpable in every note.

Lying on the ground Lahallia tried to brace herself for the next wave of shouting, but a pause made her remove her hands from her ears, only then becoming aware of how she shook with every breath she drew, how shallow those breaths were. Surely this should have triggered Visions, she would have welcomed the escape from the current reality, but for once, none came. "A nice effort, though. A shame he's dead, but these things do happen." The voice continued more rationally.

Lahallia looked – the Dunmer certainly wasn't _dead_…then again, who expected Sheogorath to show a good grasp of logic? Picking herself up hesitantly, Lahallia looked around. She was sure the thundering voice belonged to Sheogorath – only he could switch moods so quickly, as one of the most mercurial of Daedric Lords.

"Well? WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?" Sheogorath's voice boomed again, and this time Lahallia heard shouts of pain as his tones blasted eardrums and rattled brains in heads. "BRING ME A CHAMPION! REND THE FLESH OF MY FOES! A _MORTAL_ CHAMPION TO WADE THROUGH THE ENTRAILS OF MY ENEMIES!" A moment of silence then a sort of tittering laugh, an unbalanced giggle. "Really, do come in. It's lovely in the Isles right now. Perfect time for a visit." But the tone, while no longer booming, held a veiled threat.

Lahallia looked at the door's swirling contents as the Dunmer, finally coming around again as her spell wore off, took fright, scrambled to his feet and dove from the island into the water.

Lahallia did not look to see if the Dunmer resurfaced to swim to land, or if the long drop proved more than the addled mer could handle. Was this what Azura meant her to do? She was no champion! No fighter of battles, or mistress of swords! She was a Seer, a librarian trained with the sword, at best! Not some master of steel and spell!

Forget the acclaim of penning a catalogue of an uncharted realm!

And yet, Lahallia knew it would do her little good to go back to the Apocrypha without completing whatever task she was walking towards. Hermaeus Mora had the Mysterium Xarxes…he wouldn't want to give _that _back, if one of his Attendants failed in whatever task paid for the book….eeeeh. No, she might as well take her own life before going back, task unfinished.

Lahallia looked with some nausea at the gate, now spewing the pleasant-feeling magicka. All good feeling and excitement drained out of her, leaving only cold, mind-numbing apprehension.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five: Obsession

3. E., Early Year 433

The Administrator of Pinnacle Rock's office door was closed. Which meant that whatever was going on inside should not be disturbed, because the matter was serious. Either an emergency – like complete and total failure at some Mazken outpost – or someone had put a foot way out of line, and was getting a chewing out (or worse) for it. Either of these was a fair assumption for the average Mazken to make, but this time, the fair assumption was nowhere near the mark.

Grakella Udico looked doubtfully at Orphael, eyebrows arched, her cheek resting in one hand. Still sitting comfortably behind her desk, weapons close to hand but not hanging from her lean frame, she showed no signs of temper, or anything except a mild attitude of 'here we go again'. "Let's me guess," she held up a hand before her inferior could get a word in edgewise. "You want to be taken off the patrol roster to go chasing plot bunnies. What are they up to this time? Hostile takeovers, or stealing one pauldron and not the other from everyone in the garrison?" Udico asked innocently, smirking as she spoke.

Orphael snorted, and resisted the urge to smile as well, though in rueful embarrassment rather than humor. Udico would never let him live that down… "I told you, the plot bunnies are the tools of Lord Sheogorath in the realm of Nirn. They're plotting on _his _behalf. But, I see you finally passed mind reading." He half bowed, invoking Udico's favorite ill-tempered quip: that she failed mind reading when training to hold an officer's position within the Mazken Hierarchy.

Udico might call him to heel and remind him of his place in the scheme of things if he got too pushy or stepped out of line, but she was smart enough to know the strengths of the people working for her, whatever social stratification said. And she knew Orphael was one of the best scouts she had on staff at the present. Not that there was much to scout, as Orphael would quickly point out. The Isles had not proved _this_ quiet in ages, which – he intended to argue, if the point came up – must mean _something_.

Udico snorted. The vehement utterance that the unknown could yield murderous rabbits with schemes for world domination had come spewing out of Orphael's mouth in a fit of sheer frustration at being told 'no' yet again some five years ago. Fortunately, it was Udico he'd wound up shouting at, who found the idea of what _she_ in turn dubbed 'plot bunnies' utterly hilarious. It was this ability to make her laugh that gave her a very small soft spot where Orphael was concerned. He might be a male, but he was not so useless as other Mazken leaders might paint him. Some might argue there was something wrong with his personality, but Mazken were not required to be charismatic.

He was also obsessed with the Crystalline Obelisks, and had showed it since he realized he didn't know what they did. "You do know it's more likely we'd have to deal with rabid rabbits than some threat from those obelisks?" she asked.

"But how do you _know_?" Orphael argued back. "How do you know they're benign?" The assumptions made here were, to his way of thinking, unbelievable. Especially when the Mazken were so careful about security – he had no idea what the Aureals thought, not considering their opinions half as good, or research half as credible as that of his own people.

"Because they haven't done _anything_ but sit there, breaking up the landscape for the past four hundred odd years?" Udico answered reasonably, watching the agitated Mazken prowl around as he thought. "Why should they do anything strange now?" Why indeed?

Orphael was not about to admit the way this question stumped him. Udico had a valid point, both Mazken knew it. One was not willing to admit it out loud, however. "We don't even know what they _are_." He tried. His research in that direction had, most unpleasantly, disappeared the last time he had died. No one knew anything. No one saw anything.

It was especially frustrating as Mazken were not really researchers at heart.

Udico had heard this argument as well. Over and over again. Part of her was ready to capitulate just to stop the circular attempt at logic, the other half of her resented it had finally come to that. "Orphael, you do know you're starting to sound a little…unhinged?" she finally asked. Mazken were not supposed to be unhinged – they were the best part of security in the Isles. They needed their wits about them – hence their unique among Daedra memory problems.

"These are the Shivering Isles, Grakella Udico. Fragmented memory makes us _all_ a little unhinged," Orphael responded grouchily, crossing his arms before his chest and sticking out his chin obstinately. Sometimes it was a blessing not to remember anything, except for little unconnected fragments of previous lives, but most of the time, he would prefer the unbroken continuity the Dremora or Aurorans had.

Udico looked at her hands. Yes, she understood the frustration of having to relearn so many things when she came back from an untimely demise. She thought she understood why Orphael didn't like this whole situation. He tried, stepping outside his realm of expertise, to research things pertaining to the obelisks. So far all or most of his notes seemed to disappear every time he died. Or had started to do so, she corrected herself, within the last couple decades.

When he had first expressed a curiosity about the Obelisks, he had kept notes from occasional snippets of time he spent observing them. Then, as he'd gotten more persistent, the untimely demises started, and his work began to disappear.

Udico did not want to think the two were connected, that someone, somewhere was trying to keep something about the obelisks secret…because that meant _someone_ was behind this, which in its turn meant giving Orphael full permission to make it his job to find out who 'they' were, what the obelisks were, why the obelisks were present in the Isles, and what threats the mysterious 'they' and the obelisks posed.

Unfortunately, the list of people who could remove documents wholly unseen from Pinnacle Rock was very short indeed. None of them were people Udico would want to accuse outright without proof – unless there was someone sneaking around who simply hadn't made a mistake big enough to get them caught, which was disturbing in and of itself.

Paranoia swirled in Udico's nimble mind, drawing her closer and closer to the unfortunately inevitable conclusions: that Orphael would have to go look. And that he might just pay for it in a more permanent fashion than banishment and recall.

Orphael was a good scout, and she did not want to find him trapped somewhere like Relmyna's dungeon again. Good thing Orphael did not remember _that _trip in its entirety. She remembered the aftermath, and it still made her vaguely sick. An image of the broken Mazken flickered before Udico's mind's eye. No one, she had thought both then and now, should suffer like that and still _live_.

"Orphael…" Udico began, looking up at him.

"I'll be _very careful_," Orphael cut Udico off. "Grakella, can you really take the risk?" Orphael's brilliantly blue eyes fixed on Udico's green ones, though he said nothing more, waiting for her to answer the question.

"Can _you_?" Udico stood up, coming to a decision. She had not told him what had happened the last time he'd died – only checked up on him when he'd climbed out of the Wellspring, to make sure none of the damage was lasting. The rumors that spawned had abounded for weeks. "The last time you died, it was because I had to put a dagger to your throat because Relmyna broke your mind." She had almost failed to recognize him as a fellow Mazken. Almost. "I don't want to have to pry you out of that bitch's claws again, Orphael."

Orphael looked away from Udico. He remembered something intensely _bad _from before…but not the details. If Relmyna had been involved at all…he shuddered. He did not like the Dunmer much, finding her experiments perverse even by the standard of the Isles. She was mad, and a genius, certainly…and one of Lord Sheogorath's personal choices – no sheep collected by his faithful shepherds.

Absently Orphael swallowed, rubbing his throat as if in memory of the merciful stroke, though his mind remained blank on that score. Not for the first time he squashed the impulse to find out what it would take to gain permission to give Relmyna a taste of her own medicine. Preferably at the hands of her own experiments.

Udico watched the oddly blackened hand. She did not remember what caused the injury, and found it disturbing. Something about it was _wrong_. "Orphael. Did you ever think maybe there's a reason you're being prevented from looking into this?"

"That's why I have to, Grakella." Orphael replied staunchly, though his expression gave every indication he knew it was a dangerous path to take. But if no one braved it, the dangers remained unnamed and unknown, and _that_ was something the Mazken could not allow. Who knew how far the unknown dangers could spread? Or _would_, given the chance?

Udico sighed, pulling her sword, scabbard and belt from where they all leaned against her chair, buckling them about her waist before fetching her bow and quiver from their pegs on the wall. No Mazken ever went anywhere unarmed.

"All right. Do what you've got to do, I can spare you. But anything you find here, you have to check against the obelisks in Mania. I want _research_, not a half ass job." She was hoping the general dislike of Mania might stop him, but knew better than to bet on it. "Watch out for Aureals while you're up there. Things at Cylarne are heating up again."

Which was true enough. If the Aureals lost the Altar of Despair, they would certainly fight any Mazken they came across. Particularly one lone male. Udico decided promptly to prepare another contingent of Mazken to leave Pinnacle Rock in order to bolster Grakedrig Ulfri's forces. It was Udico's understanding that Ulfri was about to launch a massive assault and take the Altar _back _after having lost it so shamefully roughly six months ago. She would need the new Mazken, because Ulfri was known for laying down many lives in order to achieve her ends. Without a little discreet help – like anticipating the need for reinforcements – Ulfri would take the Altar only to lose it again, because she did not have the numbers to defend it.

Orphael, taking advantage of Udico's reverie to think a moment longer, ignored the knowledge that, in an undetermined span of time, he would be watery eyed, trying not to breathe the pollen and mushroom spores of Mania. They made his head fuzzy and his wits sluggish. "Thank you, Grakella," Orphael saluted smartly, turning to leave.

"Orphael." He peered back over his shoulder at her. "If Relmyna gets her hands on you again, I may not be able to rescue you." The last time, Udico remembered, she had only managed to save Orphael because Relmyna was not home at the time, and the assistant there was easily bullied. Crossing Relmyna herself was different, and despite her position within the ranks of the Mazken – Lord Sheogorath's most loyal servants – Udico was not sure she could bully or bluff Relmyna in person. That woman was a little too fascinated with pain.

Orphael nodded. "I'll watch my back." He had no trouble believing the rumors about Nelrene's involvement, except he couldn't see her serving up another Mazken – any other Mazken – to Relmyna for no reason other than a personal dislike. The Mazken, after all, were dedicated to the Realm and its Ruler. To destroy another on the basis of one's petty dislikes was an unthinkable thing to do, for it weakened the ability of the whole to serve.

Nelrene might hate him, but she wouldn't deprive Udico of one of the best scouts because of it.

"You do that," Udico responded as Orphael swept off to gather his gear. With another sigh Udico went to confer with Ulanna about sending her with a unit up to Cylarne. The former Captain of the Mazken Guard in New Sheoth was absolutely itching for something constructive to do.

Orphael sedately entered his room in the Dormitory Wing, then shut it just as sedately, then smiled in a thoroughly self satisfied fashion. This time there would be no lost notes – he retrieved those he had from their hiding place - and no 'accidents'. He fully intended to make sure no one whatsoever got the drop on him.

Especially if last time he had ended up at Relmyna's tender mercies. That was, in some ways, a better way to stop someone from ferreting around than killing them – particularly if that someone was a Mazken. Relmyna was sufficiently practiced in torture to keep an experiment (they no longer were 'people' or 'creatures' when she got hold of them) alive for days. Weeks. Even with Lord Sheogorath playing tricks with time, as he liked to every so often.

Orphael realized he had stopped packing up his things when his thoughts drifted to Relmyna. His stomach squirmed. No, no he would have to be very careful, and not let anything sneak up on him while he was investigating. Udico had a very valid point about the insane. He suspected if Relmyna got him back she'd never let him go – unless Lord Sheogorath himself ordered it, and why should he intervene? He believed Relmyna was one of the interesting personages, one of the most exemplary madwomen in the realm. He permitted her to give full vent and expression to her madness within the confines of his realm – though the occasions of Mazken ending up in her clutches were very isolated.  
Shaking his head, Orphael began to choose his gear very carefully. If he was going into Mania at any point, he needed to make sure he packed on the heavy side – not that the enchanted pack would weigh any more as a result. But Dementia had a certain predictability, as far as Orphael felt, while Mania did not. Or perhaps it was simply his affinity to the southern half of the Isles.

It was with a tinge of regret that he could not justify – even to himself - a trip up to New Sheoth.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six: The Interview

4 E., Year 1

Lahallia found herself standing in a small, very dark room, instead of the terrifying unknown of Sheogorath's Madhouse. Except for the fact the room was rendered in somber simplistic colors, Lahallia might have expected to see it somewhere in the Apocrypha.

As soon as she realized this, Lahallia heard the ticking. She nearly walked into a table – which had not been there when she first entered the room...or had it? Staring at the table, she found the metronome...was it even possible to have the ticking without a source of sound? For if the table was not there when she entered the room…

So why this particular room if there was no one to greet…

"Let's be civil, shall we? Please, have a seat."

Lahallia blinked at the man. By all rights she should have jumped out of her skin. She was _quite _certain he had not been there before, just as the table, and the metronome and the ticking had not been there. An odd thought struck Lahallia, the first of a string of several odd thoughts: that she was somehow creating the things inside the room as she _expected them to be there_. In darkness, a familiar room. In silence, a familiar sound, then a table, and a source for the sound, then…but who ever heard of an elf conjuring up such things in a Daedric Lord's realm?

It defied convention.

Then again…this _was_ Sheogorath's Madhouse.

The Breton, now seated behind the table, his elbows on the wood, his fingers laced, gave her a mildly disdainful, bored expression, which made Lahallia's stomach and throat both clench.

All people had a sense of reality. Lahallia could not phrase it better than to say that, like the force of wind could push a person around, or push around a person, past and future acted upon living beings. And yet…the Breton sat before her, but there was no sense of any outer forces acting upon him – to use her own description. He was, but he was not – and it made Lahallia nervous.

Tick-tock.

No. The Metronome was not saying 'tick tock'. Lahallia found the little instrument still moving, but the movements were not regular, if ever they were. In the few moments she watched it tick-tocked at a normal rate, then teeeek…taaaa…then it was red-blue…but somehow still _sound_.

"Are you incapable of following a simple direction?" The Breton demanded.

Lahallia's world seemed to shatter around her, the spell of the metronome – still ticking off sounds that were not sounds – broken. "Of course. My apologies." Sitting down automatically, she found a chair had materialized behind her, exactly where it was needed, when it was wanted. It occurred to Lahallia, between the time she made to sit and the time she gave her attention to the Breton, that the metronome was not counting off time. It was counting off reality. "What is that?" Lahallia asked, the metronome recapturing her attention. Its shape had changed, and it no longer appeared as a simply made, innocuous metronome…but she knew that it still was.

"It's a metronome." The Breton answered.

"It doesn't look like one anymore." Lahallia noted.

"And you do not look like an Apocrypha attendant. Does that mean you've become something else?" The Breton asked, his voice still holding a sort of sedate boredom, aloof dismissal and distaste.

Lahallia frowned, her pride surfacing at the implication of appearing as anything _but_ an Apocrypha Attendant. Rendered as she was in shades of gray, a gray spot in this very real room. Holding up a hand she watched color bleed into it, as if ink had spilled across her, and her skin soaked it up. She still appeared ghostly pale, but at least she now gave the appearance of a living woman. "This isn't right." She reached to the left for a glass of water, but found only the glass…

And then it was half empty, which it certainyl _wasn't_a moment before.

"Who are you?" Lahallia asked, turning her attention away from the glass. She dropped it, willing it, _expecting_ it to stop falling midair. There was no resultant crash. Not until she examined the floor did she find the glass had vanished, not crashing, exactly as she had willed it to not crash, but the water was on the floor.

"Ahem." The Breton tapped a finger on the table.

Lahallia found the ruined remains of the empty glass, as if it had shattered soundlessly right in front of her.

"I am Haskill, Chamberlain to the Lord Sheogorath. I can see you are enjoying playing with the laws of existence, but I caution you not to get used to it."

"What is this place? This, place, here." She motioned to the four walls, indicating the room itself, not whatever might be lurking outside.

Haskill did not show his mild surprise. Of course, it would take an Attendant of the Apocrypha to catch on so quickly. The simple fact she _had_ caught on, and had not gone crazy upon hearing the metronome's twisted notes, indicated she had the capacity to exist relatively comfortably in the Isles. So far, the metronome and the changing, shifting reality of the room had prevented all others entering by the so-convenient Gate from retaining any vestige of sanity and coherent thought.

"This is an interview." Haskill answered. "And it is Lord Sheogorath's whim. The Isles are not a place for just anyone."

"No." Lahallia answered quietly, determinedly meeting the Breton's eyes. The harder she tried to ignore the sounds coming from the metronome the more they bored into her skull.

Haskill felt Lahallia stop playing with the suspended rules of the Plane – that Sheogorath made them up as _he _went along – as commanded. Smart girl. At least she could follow directions.

Still, an Attendant? That would certainly be Azura's doing. Haskill was not sure what the Daedra Lord was up to, but he doubted it was as innocent as she made out. He _knew_ she had slipped the idea of a mortal champion into Sheogorath's fractured mind, though he did not see _why_. Of course, it was something Sheogorath had not yet tried…

Lahallia checked the room once more, before realizing she _could_ feel the creep, the permeating waft of Daedric magicka. A spellcaster did not spend so much time in Oblivion without learning to sense the currents of Daedric magicka. It was, she realized, a sort of buffer between 'reality' and Sheogorath's Madhouse. Most likely, people did not get the benefit of such an interim location – it must have to do with why Haskill called this an interview. So she could focus on the questions he asked.

And yet, the normalcy she herself had outlined by simply existing in this little pocket of Oblivion was already changing. As if she were in a tub of cold water, which gradually warmed to scalding. The process was slow enough one did not realize one was in hot water until it became unbearable. Clever.

Surely, Azura would not have sent her, if the Daedric Lord had not thought she, Lahallia, stood a good chance of meeting whatever criteria was used to grade acceptability.

"To answer your question in a broader sense," Haskill continued, "you approach the Shivering Isles – that is their proper name. Through the door behind me," Lahallia did not see the door manifest. She simply saw light of an indescribable color gleaming around the edges of a door shape. She could also feel the dual-nature magicka of this Plane creeping through the gaps. Sweet and fetid, vast with possibility and rife with failure. "Lies the realm of Sheogorath, Prince of Madness, Lord of the Never-There."

Lahallia produced her book and set it open on the table, gaging Haskill's reaction. She failed spectacularly, unable to tell whether her cataloging what was said right in front of him annoyed him or not. She produced her pen and set it against the paper. "Tell me about the door."

"Why?"

"Why not?" Lahallia countered. "You know I'm obligated to ask." She knew he was not obligated to respond.

Haskill sighed. On the other hand, it would amuse Lord Sheogorath – possibly – to let her try and catalogue the Isles. She was not the only one trying, but she was definitely the more methodical about it. Haskill could feel the seeds for madness settled deep in her mind, dormant and 'safe'. He knew, without knowing her personally, she was one of those rare people gifted with strong Sight. He wondered vaguely how long it would take, with her Sight unchecked by the usual methods, for those seeds to burst into blossom. "Because my Lord wills it to be so. It poses no danger to Mundus; no compact has been violated."

"I did not suggest one had," Lahallia responded, scribbling the words down. Of course she did not imply a volition of the rules the Daedra Lords must to adhere to – she _knew_ the wording, and terms those compacts contained, having read them in the Apocrypha. The age old balance between order and chaos. The Daedra and the Aedra.

"It is a doorway, an invitation. Perhaps you will accept it for what it is." Haskill said.

Lahallia's eyes rose from her writing. In a startling feat of consciousness and sensory awareness, she finished the sentence without paying it any more mind than she needed to form the words inside her head. From what Haskill could see, her handwriting neither wavered not became less legible. Only an Attendant. Some said they did not really need to see the paper to shape the words going into it. "I was asked to apply here, by Lord Azura. Do you know what would have prompted that?" Lahallia was not successful in keeping the doubt out of her voice.

Haskill did not miss the uncertainty. "Why you in particular? I do not know. My Lord seeks a mortal to act as his Champion. As for his intent...to attempt to fathom it is a foolish endeavor."

Lahallia nodded. It was foolish to try and pry too deeply into the private matters and plans any Daedra Lord, doubly so the vindictive ones (which most were) and triply so the Prince of Madness. "My apologies."

Haskill knew the words were just words, and nodded to show he had heard them.

"What now?" Lahallia asked, taking in Haskill's clothes. Previously they lacked definition, but now she could see he wore a black and red doublet, with shiny silver buttons. Beneath the doublet she could see the ruffled fabric of sleeves at his wrists. But as far as she was concerned, Haskill was still a puzzle, for he still lacked the forces acting upon him Lahallia expected to see.

The metronome suddenly began to tick and tock again. The time between one sound and the other continued to vary, but the sounds at least stayed fixed. The air in the room changed, and Lahallia realized whatever all this was, the acclimation process must be over. No doubt if she had failed the interview before now, she would have ended up like the mad Dunmer.

This did not please her much. She had heard over and over that Seers possessed the disposition for going mad, and she had seen others do so – though very few Attendants in the Apocrypha suffered such a fate. No, usually it was the Seers on Nirn.

"You do as you will. You may leave the way you entered. Your life will be none the worse for your time spent here. Or, you may continue onward, through the door behind me. If you can pass the Gates of Madness, perhaps the Lord Sheogorath will find a use for you." Haskill watched Lahallia's mismatched eyes as they darted around, making him certain she was aware of the Isles beyond the room's walls.

"And then…what happens?" Lahallia asked, closing her book and putting it and the pen back amongst her gear. She did not remember taking her backpack off, but found it on the floor. It was, she realized, also on the floor when she had pulled pen and book out of it. Yet she did not remember placing it there.

Lahallia took a deep breath and dismissed the inconsistency. That was, she was sure, part of the trick here. It was not so much how much madness one could withstand, it was how much inconsistency and madness one could accept.

"Who is to say? There are always choices to be made. The Realm of Madness is no different in that regard. Your choices are your own." Except, Lahallia thought sourly, the choice was already made, so there was no sense pretending there was a choice…

Except, she realized, she could _choose_ to back out and suffer the certainly unpleasant consequences. She sighed, slouching in the uncomfortable chair. It was a choice, but not a good one. Or a difficult one.

"Enter or do not, but make your decision. I've other duties to which I must attend."

"I will enter." She did not want to find out what Hermaeus Mora's temper was really like, particularly if it was to be aimed at her. For a moment she imagined tentacles twisting around her body and dragging her down into some sort of noxious sludge, drowning her for not even trying. Her skin crawled.

"Fine. I'm sure my Lord will be most pleased, assuming you ever manage to see him." Haskill stood up and gathered several books Lahallia knew were not on the table before the moment Haskill wanted them. The perfect functionary preparing to bustle off to his master.

Lahallia remained seated while Haskill pulled himself together, appearing a moment later swathed in a black cloak. Lahallia caught a glimpse of the lining, which was not black, but filtered between colors and patterns. "You'll want to pass through the Gates of Madness. Oh, and mind the Gatekeeper. He dislikes strangers to the Realm. Enjoy your stay."

Lahallia blinked.

Haskill was gone.

The metronome continued ticking until Lahallia reached out and stopped it. The silence pressed against her eardrums. The door leading –presumably – to the Shivering Isles had sprouted an elegant wrought silver handle while she had not paid attention to it. Haskill's chair was gone as well.

Lahallia stood up – the chair vanishing behind her – before pulling her backpack on and settling it comfortably. The table remained where it was, though the metronome had disappeared as well, replaced by a simple hourglass.

Her fingers did not even touch the door handle. Before the pale digits reached the silver, the room began to vibrate, then to quiver and shake. It shook until Lahallia lost her balance, landing against the stone floor. Her scream was stillborn as she watched the dark ceiling and walls shaking apart…

Into a cloud of the most brilliant butterflies she had ever seen in her life. Gleaming blue and green, magenta and gold, their wings flashed like tiny plates of stained glass, swirling around, as if they had comprised the walls and ceiling of the room the whole time. Lahallia regained her feet as the cloud of butterflies suddenly converged, and whipped past her.

Lahallia hit the ground again, her eyes rolling as the beautiful butterflies finished their circuit and abandoned the Vision-trapped Seer to soar into the sky, the light overhead glinting off their wings, eventually making them easy prey for the hungry flock of birds hunching on the Gates of Madness.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven: The Fringe

4 E., Year 1

_A city divided. Below the mountains, before the sea. A city of light and dark. Of the brilliant and psychotic. Split. Sundered. Halves of a shattered mind balanced on a shattered life. Sweet and fair, dark and decayed. _

Lahallia shrieked wordlessly as a monster reached out for her, swinging a deadly weapon at throat height. The thing screamed out, a wordless, primal call of triumph that deafened.

She went limp, tears rolling from her eyes to collect in pools in her ears as she gazed up at the sky above, trembling from the sudden onslaught of Vision. Rolling onto one side, she rubbed the back of her neck, stiff and sore from the throes of Vision. She hated the violent ones…the least of Visions usually made her stare off unfixedly into the air, often unnerving onlookers. The worst were painful, truly frightening. This one had not, she realized upon not tasting blood in her mouth, or finding her nails bloodied or torn from clawing herself or her surroundings, been bad as she had thought, though still uncomfortable.

Sitting up, Lahallia's shoulders strained. The integral Daedric magicka of the realm snaked past her. Rubbing her throat Lahallia tried to tap into it, her aches vanishing with a minimal expenditure of power. Sometimes the aftermath of Visions left her ability to cast a little shaky, having disrupted her concentration.

The image of the monster, a hulking thing with the sun – or light source, she realized, noticing there was no 'sun' overhead – made her fingers feel cold. Rubbing her hands, Lahallia checked her gear, making sure her sword was loose in its scabbard, just in case.

If the light was any indication, she wouldn't to have to see that _thing_ until sometime closer to sunrise or sunset. She was fairly sure the meeting would take place in the relatively near future – but these things were often hard to pin down. She was sure, focusing on what she Saw, it would be _here_, for the sky behind the creature – quick glimpse she had of it – looked like this Plane's sky.

Lahallia stood on a square of flagged stone, which joined a canyon like road of packed earth some feet ahead, down a short flight of stone stairs. Giving her gloves an almost self conscious tug, Lahallia started forward, automatically counting off the steps before realizing knowing the number would not help her here.

In the Apocrypha, one could count off steps from, say, one's bed to the front door, and from the front door to the doors of Hermaeus Mora's retreat, and by focusing on destination and count of steps arrive in short order, without any of the strange detours one might find if not focusing so completely. The Apocrypha was funny like that.

Lahallia quickly found herself a little frustrated by the feeling of smallness and claustrophobia the road gave her, for there was always _something _blocking her view away from the sides. A large tree, or tangle of roots, or giant stones…she was not sure whether some of the 'stones' were actually local flora, but opted not to go over and investigate. As open a view as the vista of the interview room offered, the road certainly contrasted. She thought she could smell wood smoke, and that she had spotted a town from her vantage point, but with the road curving here and there like a track drawn by a child in their mashed turnips, she could no longer be sure.

She had not gone far past this when the road opened out a bit, giving way to a stand of water-loving trees with arch-like root systems. She caught movement close to the ground. Lahallia did not draw her sword, even when the thing hissed at her. Producing her book with a wave of her hand - no manual rummaging here – she opened it to a blank page, eyeing the creature closely. Moving on four stubby legs, it looked like a lizard-amphibian cross – and from the hissing, decidedly hostile.

The words of the Apocrypha's Trap – a soul trap spell variation – fell from Lahallia's mouth in a mumble only the funny lizard-toad heard. For a moment the mud colored creature stiffened, then it collapsed and vanished. Lahallia looked at the book. The open pages now contained a beautifully detailed set of drawings of the creature – the ink of which pulsated slightly in dark blue and darker green – and several paragraphs in a hand Lahallia knew to be her own, detailing 'baliwog'. It was, she smiled as she closed the book, so much easier to let the inhabitants catalogue themselves.

Especially for someone whose first discipline was not that of an artist.

Whatever else a baliwog might be, Lahallia knew she would never want one for a pet. They were ugly little things, and she was willing to bet money – but not to test the theory – that their teeth were sharp and possible poisonous.

The town Lahallia thought she saw did, in fact, exist. It also proved to be in something of an uproar, several of the residents clustered in the middle of the road upon which Lahallia walked, which seemed to cut straight through town on its way…elsewhere. Only as she walked did Lahallia realize that, despite the feeling of Daedric magicka, it was not quite potent enough, somehow, to qualify as an actual Plane. As if she were somehow still stuck between the world she had once tried to leave behind and the Realm of Madness.

"I told them!" a Redguard was shouting angrily. "I told them, but they didn't want to listen!"

"So what do you want us to do about it?" A Nord dressed in heavy furs and hunting gear demanded, scowling.

"I don't know!" The Redguard, previously so agitated, seemed to calm down. "Go watch, I guess…"

The Nord snorted, and started off.

"Excuse me." Lahallia stepped forward.

"Yes, hello. What?" The Redguard turned. "I'm Sheldon. I've been here the longest, so I'm the Mayor." He scowled as if daring Lahallia to dispute this.

Lahallia blinked, but opted not to touch the subject. It was too obviously the quickest way to start a fight she did not seek. If this was the realm of Madness, or even attached to it, people were likely to show temper or worse at the drop of a hat. Lahallia certainly did not intend to come here and pick fights with the locals. "I was just wondering where I was…"

"Well, if you don't know where you are, you're probably _lost_." The Redguard grunted. "You're in Passwall. On the Fringe."

"Fringe?"

"Fringe of Madness! Ugh. Come on!" He frowned.

"I'm sorry," Lahallia apologized quickly. "I've just arrived."

"Oh…well, come watch the show then." The Redguard turned on his heel and started off.

"What show?" Lahallia asked, though she suspected this question would lead back to whatever Sheldon was shouting about when she had first stepped up.

"The Gatekeeper. Another band of adventurers out to try their luck."

"The Gatekeeper…sounds ominous." Lahallia's stomach quivered. Ominous nothing, it sounded downright _dangerous_.

Sheldon gave a barking laugh. "Ominous nothing! He's going to _flatten _them_._ I warned them, but you know how those adventuring types are." Rolling his eyes, he began to trot up the stairs winding out of the road.

Lahallia looked back – the land seemed to stretch, allowing them to come much further than it seemed possible. Forcing herself to accept this, Lahallia continued on after Sheldon. "So, the Gatekeeper…"

"Guards the Gates of Madness. Only way out of the Fringe, you know," Sheldon answered. "But no one gets past _him_. Plenty try, but…" He shrugged, trailing off, as if to say it was completely their own fault they ended up dead and he had no sympathy for them whatsoever.

Lahallia chewed this over. No, more likely only a very few got past this Gatekeeper.

A roar of displeasure chilled Lahallia's blood as she reached the top step. Feeling the blood drain from her face as her heart began to sound, Lahallia strode forward. The light source giving the Fringe the appearance of daytime gleamed from behind the massive Gates. On a large paved circle, raised a few steps above the terrace upon which she, Sheldon, and a handful of other spectators stood, towered the monster from Lahallia's vision.

An iron-helmed, axe-wielding (Lahallia grimaced, upon realizing the axe was more part of the creatures arm than anything else), monstrosity. The skin of its limbs was pitted, as if acid burned, crudely sewn? together in places, with tattoo-like marks where the thread to hold its misshapen mismatched limbs together should have shown. All this came wrapped in a miasma of unpleasant smell that occasionally wafted towards the onlookers – like dirty water and decaying algae overlaid with sweat and suffering – and a magical roil Lahallia could not describe as anything other than _corrupted_.

Lahallia drifted closer, staring in horror, as Sheldon barked once for her to keep her distance. She ignored him, her mouth moving, framing words no one could hear. Stopping halfway across the terrace, she called her book, but it hung in her hands, as if she was unaware of it. One would think seeing the Gatekeeper in Vision would have prepared her for seeing it in reality, but this was not the case.

It somehow made it worse, for what she Saw in a brief instant had not prepared her for the actuality. Too often with Vision this was the case.

Three adventurers, all in the finest gleaming heavy plate, weapons shining, died bloodily within the moments she watched. Snuffed out like candles. The Gatekeeper roared at the sky and for several moments continued to hack at and abuse the bodies, until one by one, they were flung off the raised, paved circle in which she stood guard.

It caught sight of Lahallia and strode forward, but stopped, evidently bound not to pass onto the terrace. But Lahallia knew it was looking at her, wanting to tear her into pieces. "Book." she spoke in the cipher, before realizing she had already called it. The spell-sounds for the Apocrypha's Trap came to her lips, but the magicka seared and chafed her lips, the spell itself seeming to slide around the Gatekeeper, unable to touch it, unable to take hold of it, and force it into the pages.

Lahallia felt the spell shatter, dropping her book as it did so.

It fell open, but the pages were blackened, as if she had dropped an entire inkwell upon them. Looking at her glove, small burns appeared on the gray leather. The Gatekeeper roared again, a sound that shook Lahallia's brain inside her skull, and made her sinuses buzz.

Lahallia realized, as she stared unfixedly at the paving stones, why the Gatekeeper was so terrifying. It was not just the physical presence, the scent coming from it, the fumes of magicka corrupted coming off it. The Gatekeeper itself was a Vision Trigger – and all this time as Lahallia looked upon it, she Saw, in the least invasive manifest of Vision, suffering. Pain. Tens upon hundreds, their suffering tainting the air of some dark place, where this _thing,_ this hulking behemoth once lay.

It was these Visions flickering the back of her mind, brought to the fore by focus and recognition that kept her staring off into space, Seeing while seeing. Forcing Vision to bay, Lahallia dragged her eyes to the book, lying on the ground at her feet.

Kneeling to pick up her book, not looking away from the Gatekeeper, she backed up until she stumbled over the first stair of the way leading down to Passwall. The jolt and the distance from the Gatekeeper – an unusually wide berth – allowed the vague Visions to fade from her mind. She had no doubt that – vague as they were –if she returned to this spot braced for them, she would find herself able to function a little better.

Meanwhile most everyone had already gone back. Lahallia caught a glimpse of one of the bodies, blood oozing out onto the terrace. Stopping, she stepped back onto the terrace and raised her hand free hand. Throat pulled tight with apprehension, she pulled on the power available to her, both from within and without, and the three bodies exploded in flames, which grew white hot, immolating the remains, until nothing remained but the melted steel of armor, cinders, and charred spots on the otherwise immaculate flagged terrace.

Jaw set, Lahallia turned, magicked her book back into her backpack, and started down the steps back into Passwall. "Quite a sight, isn't he?" A low, female voice asked breathily.

Lahallia realized she was not alone. Standing still in the Terrace was a Dunmer, and a young Breton. The Dunmer was tall, even for her race, and when she looked over at Lahallia, Lahallia felt a certain…soullessness behind the eyes. The mind of the truly insane. She also felt a vaguely familiar sense of corrupted magicka – which made her think this Dunmer must have something to do with the Gatekeeper.

"Of course, your pathetic little spell could no more hurt him than you could hurt me. But the gesture was undoubtedly necessary." The Dunmer turned fully and pushed past Lahallia on the stairs, before pausing, and looking back, her cruel features twisted into a so-superior smile. "You should go home, little bookworm," the Dunmer's eyes swept up and down Lahallia's soft gray garb. "before I make an experiment of you." With that she flounced off, her long skirts slipping like oil down the steps after her.

Lahallia looked back at the Gatekeeper, standing before the two curving staircases that led up - presumably – to the actual Gates of Madness.

As if a chill wind blew, Lahallia's flesh rose into goosebumps, and she let the Dunmer disappear wholly from view before she followed everyone else back into Passwall, her agile mind turning over the possibilities and hoping to find some feasible way to get past the Gatekeeper.

Lahallia found she did not like sitting in the common room of the inn while the Dunmer mage was there. Lahallia did not need to be Sighted to know that woman was evil. Evil, mad, and dangerous – the way her attendant bobbed about like a whipped dog indicated as much.

It was for this reason Lahallia forced herself to go back to the terrace, to struggle to focus on what her eyes saw, not what Visions pressed against her mind, to observe the Gatekeeper, kneeling on the flagstones in plain view. Unlike most innkeepers, the one in Passwall had no more useful information to give then that she – Lahallia – should keep clear of Mistress Relmyna, one of Sheogorath's most favored.

And to be sure if Mistress Relmyna showed up, to make herself scarce.

Scuttle like a cockroach, Lahallia thought acidly. She found it much easier to work up a bit of temper now the Dunmer wasn't there in person. Lahallia had discovered _why_ the Soul Apocrypha's Trap – sufficient to capture and bind even human and merish souls – had failed. The deduction was not difficult, now she could concentrate, more or less, with clarity. The Trap had not worked because the Gatekeeper was not a creature with a soul. Further inspection, and magical observation, led Lahallia to suppose it was some sort of golem, or atronach.

This, however, boggled her mind. Everyone knew there only three forms of atronach existed: flame, frost, and storm. And yet, the Gatekeeper was clearly a construct, which meant _someone_ was experimenting in things most unsavory. The iron armor it wore certainly implied some sense of modesty. However, it probably served as something integral to its inception – however that worked – due to the apparent randomness to the profusion of it. She could tell it was magically warded. Of course it had to be – that was part of what made an atronach an atronach. Though, it obviously wasn't, since atronachs were elementals and this hunk of meat was certainly not.

The light began to fade suddenly, though it mimicked sunset up until now. Getting slowly to her feet, her knees protesting the long position curled under her body, Lahallia gave the Gatekeeper one more critical look before heading back to Passwall.

Taking her place on a stool at the bar, once making sure Relmyna was not in the room, Lahallia pulled out a scrap of ordinary parchment and her pen and began to scribble in the Cipher – just in case anyone got a hold of the paper, she did not want it widely known she was intending to find a way to unravel the Gatekeeper.

After a few hours, Relmyna drifted through the room, wearing a long dark cloak, but without her attendant, who slipped onto a barstool near Lahallia after Relmyna departed.

"Where's she off to?" Lahallia asked none in particular.

"Don't ask questions of Mistress Relmyna…" The Breton warned gently, giving Lahallia a hesitant smile, though her eyes focused on Lahallia's mismatched ones. "She doesn't like impertinence…and she's very…she likes to hurt people." The girl finished in a lower tone.

Lahallia noticed, peeping out from the sleeve of the woman's clothes, a nasty scar that might have been a burn. "Does she?" Lahallia asked blandly. She knew this already. She caught waves of that impression every time Relmyna put in an appearance.  
"Yes. You're new, so I thought I'd warn you. I'm Annette Don, Mistress Relmyna's apprentice."

Lahallia looked back to her paper. "Lahallia. Where is Relmyna going?"

"_Mistress _Relmyna goes out every night. But I don't know where," Annette said so primly Lahallia knew she was lying. However, the way Annette began to massage her forearms gently indicated clearly that unless she, Lahallia, was ready to subject the girl to more pain – Relmyna would surely not need much reason to abuse her – she should drop the subject.

Relmyna returned an hour later, and snapped at Annette as she walked by.

Lahallia looked at her scribbled words. The Dunmer looked a little teary, red eyed and somber, in a bad mood with everyone - which made the innkeeper nervous. Lahallia added a notation in the top corner of her paper.

_If Relmyna ventures out – follow. Curiosity – no viable source for answers._

"I heard you were sizing up the Gatekeeper." The speaker was a Nord, the same one, Lahallia realized, at the Gates, watching the massacre.

"Yes." Lahallia answered softly.

"You planning to get past him, then?" There was no doubtfulness in her ability to do so, merely interest.

"Yes." Lahallia looked at the Nord. "Do you know something?" The Nord did not show much sign of insanity – though Lahallia admitted neither did she – except maybe an over-enthusiasm at the prospect of having someone take on the Gatekeeper.

He smiled, revealing several broken teeth. "I do indeed. Wouldn't talk about it where Relmyna could hear me, though."

"Very wise." Lahallia looked at the stairs leading up to the guestrooms. "Where can we talk?"

"My place, tomorrow morning. Round nine." He slipped Lahallia a dirty piece of paper, which Lahallia immediately transcribed into the Cipher onto her note sheet, then burned.

_Jayred Ice-Veins, Passwall, outskirts, straight line from _The Wastrel's Purse – _can't miss it. _

Lahallia certainly hoped so.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight: Of Flesh and Bone

Lahallia tapped on the door of Jayred's home precisely at nine o'clock the next day – or what the clock called nine, as the sky was dark, overcast and steely. The whole town of Passwall seemed under a shadow, or some great worry. The air, too, bit at exposed faces and the inhabitants – particularly Relmyna, who remained closeted in her room but ran her apprentice ragged up and down the stairs for things – did not go out unless they had to.

Fighting her own lethargy, Lahallia conjured a spell to warm her hands. She hated the cold, as it made the tendons in her wrists ache like nothing else could. "Come in!" Jayred's voice called.

She entered the house, which felt wonderfully warm, almost stifling. A stifling feeling which would probably increase as time went on, but after the nippy chill outside the warmth could not be more welcoming. "Good morning."

"You shouldn't have wasted the bones." Jayred grunted, seated at his table, smoothing a long white stick with his knife. Lahallia assumed it was an arrow shaft, and realized why it was white: it was not a stick at all, but a bone. A femur, if her eyes did not deceive her. Looking around she found a stack of bones lying on the floor, still bound up with cords, like firewood.

"I'm sorry?" Lahallia edged around the end of the table, blocking the morbid materials from view. She avoided touching dead things for the same reason she avoided touching live people.

"The bones! I was going to collect the bones of those adventurers the Gatekeeper mashed, once it got good and dark, and everyone was asleep. I found them scorched to powder." He waved his knife at her, admonishingly. "You shouldn't have wasted the bones."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know you wanted them," came the primmest of librarian responses.

"I like bones." Jayred grunted.

"Why?" Beneath her skin, a spell begin to prickle. A spell to blast Jayred out of his own house, should he make any sudden moves, formed in her hand. Just in case.

"The best way to kill something, isn't it? Use its own bones. It's how we're going to kill the Gatekeeper, if you're still interested," Jayred finally giving her his full attention, "You are, aren't you?"

"Of course." She nodded, but continued eyeing Jayred for nay sign of treachery.

"Sit down."

"No thank you. It's cold outside," she declared, then moved over towards the fireplace.

Jayred shrugged and went back to his work. "I want him dead. The Gatekeeper," Jayred noted aloud, "I _need_ him dead. His bones are calling to me. Rumor has it you want him dead, too. That's good."

"Indeed. It's a powerfully magical creature." Lahallia was sure Jayred wouldn't appreciate the difference between a creature and a construct.

"I don't believe in magic." Jayred announce dismissively, then held up the bone shaft, scrutinizing it for a moment then laying it aside and pulling another bone from his bundle. "But I do believe in bones."

This time Lahallia did not ask why.

"And the best way to kill something is with the bones of its own."

It sounded reasonable. Of course, an Attendant would argue it was better _not_ to kill something, if it was not yet catalogued. Though, as Relmyna pointed out and Lahallia's disastrous attempt proved, there was no real cataloguing the Gatekeeper. Which was a pity, as it looked as though it was one of a kind. Still, it went to reason the best way to kill a Gatekeeper was with another Gatekeeper – or part of one. Like a diamond scratching another diamond.

"I can see the bones of a dead Gatekeeper in the courtyard of the Gardens. The door's locked, though." Jayred shook his head. "That'll be Relmyna's doing."

"Most likely." After all, who left a weapon lying out where just anyone could get to it?

"Here's the deal. You'll pick that lock, and I'll collect the bones. Then I'll make some arrows, and we'll kill the Gatekeeper. Sound good?" Jayred demanded.

"Where are these bones?" Logic calmly moved down the list of things to know before agreeing.

"Didn't I tell you?" Jayred frowned, looking up from his work. "The Gardens of Flesh and Bone, up a ways that way. They overlook Passwall."

Memory of walls on a hill swam lazily across Lahallia's mind. "Very well. The weather outside is keeping Relmyna in her quarters. We'd best go now. But," she added, holding up a hand, "I need to know how long it will take for you to craft these arrows."

"'Bout a day. Earliest we can do it is tomorrow morning. And only _if _we get a decent head start today." Jayred got to his feet, putting his work away methodically.

"Very well." Though she did not show it, the answer pleased her. It meant she had time to see if Relmyna went out again, and to find out where. Whatever could make a Dunmer like _that _teary and red-eyed as though with grief was something Lahallia would risk much to discover. Who knew? She might even learn something useful.

Before she knew what they were, Lahallia would have said they were simply a ruin or fortress overlooking Passwall. However, behind the heavy, wrought iron gates – locked with iron and magicka - lay nothing but the dead and the skeletal.

The knife in hand emblem etched on the lock left little doubt in the Altmer's mind as to who put it there. The magicka prickled corrosively even though she had yet to touch the lock. Overhead sunlight streamed down, as though the sun peered curiously from behind hazy banks of cloud - though there was no sun, only the imitation of sunlight and daytimes.

"Well?" Jayred prompted.

Lahallia did not want to touch the lock. She could not very well say she did not want to touch it – even though she still wore her gloves – but she really, truly did not want to. "Watch my back," she announced a moment later, with so much cold dispassion anyone who did not know her would have thought she was simply acting the professional.

She conjured a spell to unlock the lock, the prodded it into the iron with a finger until it clicked. She never saw the lock hit the ground.

_The heavy burden on her shoulder nearly made her stagger as she walked down the stairwell, into the well lit, uncomfortably clean dungeon. The air here smelled thickly of blood and dirty water and…fear. Pain. The air however was silent._

"_Oh…oh my…" The Breton flittered into the room, her blue skirts fluttering as she moved. _

"_Is Mistress Relmyna in?" _

"_Yes…" The Breton swallowed, eyeing the burden._

_The messenger hiked it back up onto her shoulder, wishing the feather spell making it portable would work a little more efficiently. "Well, go on." She barked when the Breton continued to peer at the burden._

_The girl jumped, then skittered off, like a whipped dog. _

_The wait did not last long, before Relmyna came sweeping in. "Mistress Relmyna. The Madgod sends his greetings." _

"_How sweet," the Dunmer smiled._

_So easy to manipulate…speak nicely and Relmyna oozed affection. Speak bluntly and she got pissy. "Indeed. Here is a gift for you, for a time." She let the burden slip to the floor, grunting in relief at regaining the ability to stand up straight again. Rubbing a shoulder she continued, as Relmyna gaped at the Mazken lying on the floor, sedated and for the moment embarrassingly vulnerable. "Some questions should not be asked. Lord Sheogorath invites you to…keep him occupied."_

"_Oh happily…you'll help me move him? I have just the place…" Relmyna gave a spine-tingling giggle._

_Wordlessly, she looked down at the Mazken, shivering from however Sheogorath had had him incapacitated, then snorted, and heaved him back onto her bronzy shoulder. You'd never find an Aureal in a position like this poor bastard. _

Falling to her knees saved her life, causing the stroke the skeleton aimed at Lahallia's neck to sweep too high to harm her. Before she even collected her wits she reacted, raising her hands and speaking three spellsigns in quick succession, the powerful magicka making her lips dry and chap.

The skeleton did not explode. It simply fell apart, the spells animating it, allowing it freedom of movement and to some extent thought, unraveling like badly woven cloth.

"Now that's useful!" Jayred declared loudly, before hauling her to her feet. "You all right? You look a…you were talking to yourself, too." In any other place such behavior might call for concern. Not here, however.

Lahallia pulled away from Jayred's grip so quickly she knew he'd think her rude. However, she could feel a faint coldness in his grip, even through her clothes, that hinted the Visions may not be finished. However, as Jayred shrugged and stomped over to the dead Gatekeeper, no more Visions came.

Swallowed, she rubbing her temples, trying to drive away the minor disorientation. Not the worst side effects, thank goodness, but her head ached enough to make her want to call it a day.

With Relmyna and Annette in the Vision - she recognized the Breton – looking as they currently did, she could not decipher when the Vision actually occurred. It was not usual for her to See the past, but it was known to happen.

The only other thing about the Vision interesting her were the tattoos, for the man the Aureal delivered to Relmyna had tattoos.

Leathery bat-like wings inked into his back. Yet unlike the inky blue-black skin the wings were colorful, tones she had trouble describing, but could see so easily in her mind, color bleeding through aqua to lavender to dusky blue, from one to another in such a way it almost seemed part of his skin.

'_Poor bastard,_' the Aureal's thought echoed in Lahallia's skull, making the Seer swallow uncomfortably.

Despite her self-imposed isolation, an attempt to keep the Sight from coming upon her unexpectedly – a tactic which seemed to work as often as it didn't – she thought herself a rather soft-hearted person. As such, she felt no small amount of disgust at one Daedra serving up another to someone like Relmyna. Worse if Sheogorath had really ordered it…but she paused to consider what she might not know. There _could _be treachery or something similar on the Mazken's part – she did not question how she knew to use the term – but she didn't want to think so.

"You done daydreaming?" Jayred demanded, slightly unnerved by the stock-stillness of his companion, by her wide, staring eyes which were not, he was sure, drinking in the courtyard of the Gardens.

Lahallia jerked out of her reverie. "Yes. Certainly." Swallowing, she turned and proceeded Jayred out of the Gardens, marking only that he now carried a great number of bones and bone fragment wrapped in a piece of sailcloth beneath his arm. The way he whistled indicated he was quite pleased with his takings.

Once Jayred was out, Lahallia closed the Garden gates, then relocked them. "Come see me tomorrow morning – not before," Jayred declared as they made their way down towards Passwall. Then, lowering his voice, he continued, "then we'll go kill the Gatekeeper."

"I'll be ready." Lahallia deliberately slowed her pace, allowing Jayred to get away from her as quickly as possible. Overhead the sky took on an oddly greenish tinge, the Daedric-ness of the place seeming to grow and press against her eardrums.

Pulling her jacket closer, she quickened her pace, returning to the still quiet town of Passwall, huddled close to the ground as if it expected a great storm.

Lahallia sat invisible on the stones overlooking the terrace before the Gatekeeper's post. For once the Seer was smiling, though albeit coldly. The poetic justice was not lost on her: Relmyna might enjoy inflicting pain on others, but how would she react when pain finally found her? This would probably place Lahallia forever in Relmyna's 'torture on sight' books, if the Dunmer ever got wind of her involvement. She felt confident enough she would not need to cross paths with Relmyna again, however, that this courted hatred concerned her little.

After all, what business could they possibly have with each other?

As if killing the Gatekeeper were not enough, Lahallia intended to use what she had learned from Relmyna, as the mad Dunmer vented and wept at her creation - her so-called son.

If Lahallia had any less patience, she knew she would have missed this greatest secret, stolen straight from the lips of the 'mother' herself. However, patience was almost instinctive behavior, and once again it bore fruit – though she was the first to admit that there was at least an hour's worth of time in her life she would never get back, having wasted it while Relmyna vented.

She sounded like an infatuated apprentice.

Only after Relmyna staggered off, red-eyed, teary, and wan, exhausted by her own hysterics, did Lahallia move. Her maintained spell of invisibility did not fool the Gatekeeper, its head turning slowly, tracking her movements. Well, that was all right.

Swift, soft steps brought her silently toward the reward for her patience. Relmyna never realized she had lost it, but now Lahallia retrieved the little scrap of soggy cambric.

The perfect poison.

The nature of the Gatekeeper caused Vision to press against her mind, trying to drown her in low-level images of torment, pain and suffering.

Well, she would put an end to that too, tomorrow. Jayred could use his arrows all he liked – they may even work. She intended to use the same sword she always had, every inch the Apocrypha's Attendant.

Specializing in research and application.

Author's Notes Appended: I just want to state that the Isles affect all things in them, which includes Lahallia's Visions, triggers, etc.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine: The Gates of Madness

Lahallia slept badly, tortured creatures writhing through her dreams, leaving bloody marks on her thoughts. She expected when she woke to find the day as cold and forbidding as the last. To her great surprise, the 'sun' spilled warm golden light onto the Fringe. A light and warmth that seeped into her skin like a lover's touch, even through her clothes, making her wonder if she was not overdressed.

She did not debate about her state of dress for long, though she continued enjoying the warm light. Not knowing what the weather on the other side of the Gates would be like, she opted to play things safely. That, and she did not want to leave anything behind, not knowing if or when she would be back through the Fringe.

Jayred was already up when she knocked on his door. "You're ready?" he asked gruffly, nodding to a small bundle of arrows. "Those're for you."

"I'm ready." Lahallia sat on the bench across from him, pulling her sword out of its scabbard, in order to wipe it down with Relmyna's handkerchief.

"You know that won't do anything against the Gatekeeper, except making him mad?" Jayred frowned, his eyebrows knitting together.

"I think you'll be surprised." Lahallia tilted her eyes up to meet Jayred's, without raising her head. With those mismatched eyes peering out from beneath her brows and lashes, Jayred felt immediately uncomfortable. So much so that, when Lahallia reached over and began rubbing down his arrowheads with the scrap of cloth, he did not protest.

Keeping the cloth's virtue proved easy, as Lahallia discovered, needing only to keep it moist, thus keeping the tears it contained in their useful state. A cantrip any mage could pull off, if they but thought about it for a moment.

Lahallia mused as she worked, attempting to mentally prepare herself for what loomed up ahead. She _knew_, from observation, that this was going to make an enemy of Relmyna. Lahallia disliked the Dunmer enough on principle that this caused her little discomfort. She would simply need to watch her back, and make sure she did not cross paths with the sadist ever again.

She also knew, from idle gossip with Nanette, the Gatekeeper was the only one of his kind to survive the so-called birthing process, and that Sheogorath had a hand in his creation. Nanette hinted, though, that whatever rites and rituals had produced the Gatekeeper, a much older one had occurred between Sheogorath and Relmyna. It was the first time Lahallia could remember hearing about a Daedra Lord carrying on with a mortal – which at least explained Relmyna's fawning.

Then again, Lahallia added as she worked - careful not to ruin her gloves or indeed, her fingers as the arrowheads were very sharp - she had avoided reading about Sanguine and several of the others. The squeamishness of her stomach for some of their well known actions made her not want to read about the less known ones.

She knew from gossip with Dredhwen, the proprietress, that the keys to the Gates of Madness were kept by the Gatekeeper. Popular superstition held that the keys were either in his head or his chest. Regardless, Lahallia was sure it was impossible to get them out while the Gatekeeper was flailing around and trying to kill the would-be visitors to the Isles.

All in all, Lahallia felt very confident in her preparation for the task ahead. What she did not feel confident about was the actual task of killing the Gatekeeper. She had not tried to fight anything that big, even if she had Jayred's help. She could only hope his skill with a bow and his theory about bone arrows – along with her own attempts to make these more potent – were all he claimed they were.

Swabbing the handkerchief over her dagger? – a last resort, certainly – Lahallia methodically folded the scrap of cloth, then slipped it into a pouch on her belt. "Whenever you're ready," she announced, sheathing her sword easily.

Jayred got to his feet, then started off, Lahallia following with long strides in his wake. Of the entire village, only Sheldon saw them go. The Redguard shook his head.

Some people just didn't get it.

The perfect watchdog, the Gatekeeper did not need to sleep. As a result, he roared with displeasure when Jayred and Lahallia stepped up onto the terrace. Lahallia drew her longsword, and readied a spell in hand. She knew, without Jayred telling her, his arrows were only useful so long as he kept a good distance between himself and the Gatekeeper.

This left her task particularly, _painfully_ obvious. Lahallia did not think now a good time to remind herself the Gatekeeper would probably prove fairly resistant to magicka. She noticed it before now, but could not think of a better way to keep it at bay, while Jayred made a pincushion of it. The sword would bite deep, but she was no master of the blade.

"The keys are supposedly in his body. We have to stop his animating force, first," Lahallia doubted Jayred would care, but it felt good to think aloud.

"Yeah, you do your mumbo jumbo, I'll stick him full of arrows," Jayred waved one at her, like a baton. "You go first."

Lahallia wanted to tell him _he _could go first, but did not. After all, at least he was letting her pick her timing. She knew if the invisibility spell had not fooled the Gatekeeper, it remained unlikely any sort of illusion she could raise would fool him either.

Steeling herself, Lahallia swept forward, waving her hand in front of her.

The Gatekeeper roared, a sound which shattered the morning stillness, but brought no one running to investigate the cause of its displeasure. Not even Relmyna; the inhabitants of Passwall too accustomed to the Gatekeeper's periodic articulations to think anything of it.

It stepped back as Lahallia's wall of fire erupted before its feet.

Then to Lahallia's consternation it stepped through the flames, unhurt.

Magically warded, Lahallia's mind pointed out belatedly. Raising a hand skyward, she let the incantation fall from her mouth, sizzling with static. Over the noise of the Gatekeeper, finally stepping down onto the terrace to get at her, she heard Jayred shout. She only hoped he was telling her he was ready to start peppering the Gatekeeper with arrows.

Lightening fell from the sky like a falcon making a stoop. It sizzled and crackled, making the Gatekeeper roar, adding the stench of burning flesh to the already unpleasant smell hanging around the Gatekeeper. Unfortunately, it did not stop the Gatekeeper, though it did slow him marginally.

Lahallia stepped back a pace, then put her sword at the ready. The Gatekeeper swung its axe-arm at her, the blade landing less than a foot off to the left as Lahallia moved, knowing once the force of the attack was committed it was easier to dodge. Easier, yes, but more dangerous: even if the path of the attack could not change as readily, it still had a good chance to impact, and that axe was no meat cleaver, to take an arm off cleanly at the shoulder. No, Lahallia knew, as she darted forward and hacked with her longsword at the arm almost out of her reach. Getting hit with that axe would not cleave, it would break, crush and maim, leaving her defenseless and in agony.

With spell cast upon her sword to make the poison coating the blade liquid again, Lahallia lopped into the Gatekeeper's arm, causing it to roar in rage, pain, and shock. The corrosive tears of Relmyna Verenim sizzled against the flesh, melting it as though it were wax.

Jayred's arrow found its mark, sinking deep into the Gatekeeper's back.

Lahallia threw herself back, desperately trying not to land on her sword as the Gatekeeper flailed, wrenching its axe-arm free from the ground, leaving an ugly gash and spatters of blood as evidence of the fight. Picking herself up, Lahallia found herself dancing about like a frog trying to avoid squashing feet, struggling to get close enough to hamstring the Gatekeeper.

Finally, as Jayred sent another few arrows the Gatekeeper's way – one of which missed, nearly punching through Lahallia herself – she managed it. The Gatekeeper turned to roar at Jayred, while Lahallia grunted and drew her sword like a bow across fiddle-strings, severing muscles and tendons in the back of the Gatekeeper's thigh.

The Gatekeeper crashed, flailing to one knee, the injured leg unable to bear his weight. Jayred gave a whoop of delight as the Gatekeeper flailed at Lahallia.

Lahallia, spattered with blood from the Gatekeeper's leg, tried to wipe it from her face, aware of Vision trying to force its way across her eyes, taking away consciousness. The blood did not want to come off, smearing viscously across her skin. Gritting her teeth she continued the futile exercise, until she finally she pulled her gloves off, wiped her face, and then cast the gloves away

She felt oddly naked without her gloves.

The Gatekeeper managed to turn to face Jayred, and now struggled to drag itself towards him. Lahallia collected herself before springing forward. The Gatekeeper ignored any sound Lahallia made, right up until she drove her sword through his ribcage. The stink of blood, filth, and corrosive magicka leaking into the air made Lahallia want to vomit.

Clenching her teeth, she dodged the Gatekeeper's flailing arm, dragged out the handkerchief containing the last vestiges of Relmyna's tears and addressed it with a spell to saturate it. Sopping cloth in hand Lahallia swept forward when the Gatekeeper turned his attention back to Jayred, unable to focus on any one threat for more than a few moments before trying to snuff out the other. Lahallia felt sure the Gatekeeper had never found himself wounded like this, without ever having landed a fatal blow to someone.

Lahallia dragged her sword free of the Gatekeeper's side and shoved the handkerchief in as far as she could reach.

The hot blood of the Gatekeeper burned her hand, and Vision tried to sweep over her eyes, but failed. Lahallia stumbled back, tripping and falling, hearing her sword clatter to the ground before she did herself. Sitting down hard, with a jolt she felt from tailbone to neck, Lahallia watched the Gatekeeper scream and writhe in agony. Jayred peppered it with more arrows.

Suddenly, it went still.

The silence pressed so hard against Lahallia's ears she expected her eardrums to pop. However, she knew the shouts and the sudden profound silence were sure to bring Relmyna, if no one else. Getting to her feet she sheathed her sword, bloody as it was, and drew her dagger. "Keys." She addressed the Gatekeeper's body, pouring magicka into a variant on a scrying spell.

The keys were not, Lahallia discovered in the head, or even in the Gatekeeper's chest. They were sewn one in one arm, one into the other. It did not take her long to carve the keys out of their housing, anchored to the Gatekeeper's very bones. Covered in blood, Lahallia started forward, mentally amazed at how much ground the fight took up, at the range of blood spattered in enormous droplets and patterns across the pale stone of the terrace and the Gatekeeper's original post.

Jayred hurried along with her, looking back nervously. "That witch'll come looking for us," he grunted, evidently meaning Relmyna.

"Indeed." Lahallia started up the stairs, looking at the two keys. They both _felt_ of the dual-natured magicka she had noticed before now. One sweet and energetic, the other slightly fetid and subtle. She veered off to the right, her stomach quavering nervously at the radiation of darkness, subtlety and…something that tugged on a sense of familiarity, despite the fact Lahallia was sure it could not be. "Do you want the other key?" she asked.

"No…this is the one." Jayred followed Lahallia cautiously into the long, dark passage. Even the light she conjured to aide them did not abate the darkness. She walked straight into the door at the end of the corridor, and Jayred walked into Lahallia.

Grunting as the Nord stumbled back, Lahallia groped for the keyhole, found it, then pushed the key in. Glancing back over her shoulder she could see the pinprick of light that indicated the terrace. Again, Lahallia found it impossible to have come so far in so short a time, but immediately she stopped this line of thought, accepting she apparently had, and must have lost track of distance in the so-absolutely darkness.

The key fit into the lock without fumbling, clicking softly as Lahallia turned it.

Then the door simply was no longer there, leaving Jayred and Lahallia at the top of a short flight of steps. To the left there was no sign of the other door, or of anything really, the land itself fading off into a greenish gloom. The air hung thick and heavy, smelling slightly swampy as Lahallia took a deep breath, then promptly began to cough from the humidity.

She did not hear what Jayred said, except that now they were apparently splitting up. She scarcely minded. She looked down at her bloody clothes, then sighed. Removing the blood via magicka was easy, as easy as calling her spare gloves from her backpack, to appear in her hand. Walking down the stairs, Lahallia pulled the soft gray leather on.

Yes, she realized with some unease. This was the place, and from here, presumably eastwards, lay the split city she saw when the butterflies set off the Vision…if it was indeed the butterflies' doing. Lahallia half-expected Haskill to arrive and tell her what happened next, but her inner pragmatist eschewed this. If she wanted to have her hand held, and be walked though this venture, she was certainly in the wrong place.

Lahallia watched as Jayred vanished into the hazy gloom, following the road as it ran east and southward before electing to cut cross-country. Despite the concern of getting lost, Lahallia did not want to be on the road, in case Relmyna followed with vengeance on her mind. Lahallia could not see the Dunmer, somehow, scrabbling through the wilderness in search of a Gatekeeper-killing Altmer. No, more likely she'd send some kind of monster or lesser construct.

Hand on her sword, eyes peeled for danger, Lahallia stepped forward, off the path and began the process of climbing a hill directly ahead of her, taking in the strange vegetation and the blatant depressiveness of the atmosphere. Within moments she was sweating hard, and had to conjure a magelight variation to give off a citronella scent – a scent she abhorred – to keep the biting bugs at bay, as they sought to devour her alive.

Lahallia couldn't help smiling grimly. Surely getting eaten by bugs wasn't _lasting_ enough a punishment for someone with Relmyna's disposition.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten: Attending the Aftermath

Orphael almost missed it. In fact, if he had paid one jot less attention to his surrounding as he passed the Gate of Dementia half of the Gates of Madness, near the borders of Mania, he would have. However, as uneager as he was about going into Mania, particularly with the possibility of renewed hostilities because of Cylarne – word of the Mazken retaking of the Alter of Despair having reached him when he stopped at Fellmoor – he noticed it.

A tiny key, glinting on the Gate, as if laid down by someone who did not want to wander around with it in their pocket.

Orphael strode over and reached the key easily – it was not placed as though whoever put it there meant no one to find it. The Key to Mania. The magicka of that side of the realm fizzled and pulsed mercurially beneath the physical form of the key. Orphael's grip on the little artifact tightened, the edges pressing in sharply against his palm. This key, he frowned, _should _be safe with the Gatekeeper – no, not with the Gatekeeper, _in the Gatekeeper_. He had not heard of any wandering heroes showing up and defeating it, which made him uneasy.

Orphael did not know what it took to kill the Gatekeeper, but until now, he had labored comfortably under the supposition it was nearly impossible. Apparently, someone had discovered what 'nearly' encompassed, and applied it.

Walking up to the Gate, he found it open, an unguarded entrance into Dementia. His stomach twisted. Whichever marshals were on duty, patrolling the roads of Dementia, they were not going to like this. The Gatekeeper was stationed outside the Gates for a reason. A twofold reason, Orphael though as he set to erecting a temporary ward, which would keep most of the merely curious out of Dementia. One, it kept too much sanity from occupying the realm, and two – though probably not by intention – it kept the sane ones fairly safe. The Fringe was not like the Isles themselves, after all, containing far fewer dangers.

Orphael passed through his ward without disturbing it, then paused. The noise from the Fringe side did not pass through the Gates, just as noise from the Dementia side did not affect the Fringe. The hubbub indicated plainly that every member of the community of Passwall was out and about. Over all this, he could pick out Relmyna's screams of misery and rage, and so made himself invisible.

Relmyna was not someone he wanted to see, if he was supposed to have been her 'guest' for any amount of time. No, best not to tempt fate.

Unlike the cool green lights overhead in Dementia, the Fringe currently enjoyed a brilliant sunny day, which did not match the mood on the terrace facing the Gates. From his vantage point behind the large bust of Lord Sheogorath, overlooking everything that went on in the Fringe, Orphael took note.

The Gatekeeper indeed lay dead. The torn up stonework of the terrace indicated whoever had fought him must be – to use the human phrase – a man among men. Long gashes and bloody murals marred the pale stone. Sword cuts dug deep into the Gatekeeper's mutilated body – the places where the keys were pried out painfully obvious – and arrows stuck out at strange angles.

Relmyna's apprentice lay sobbing on the ground as well, though the telltale scratch-marks on her arms indicated her as a target of Relmyna's ire, and not a mourner of the Gatekeeper's. Orphael winced – Relmyna as often as not showed as much affection for her assistants as she did her experiments. He did not like to think what the Breton had to look forward to when she got back to Xaselm.

Relmyna herself lay near the Gatekeeper, weeping unabashed and uproariously, half flung across the body, one hand balled into a fist, the other stroking the Gatekeeper's mutilated face. Orphael could not be sure whether the Gatekeeper's visage should look like that, since the thing had always worn a heavy iron helm. However, the way Relmyna stroked its cheek indicated it probably looked the way it ought to.

Slipping quietly down the stairs, giving Relmyna and the Gatekeeper a wide berth, Orphael stopped, then changed direction, Lying on the ground, covered in blood, was a pair of gloves. Picking up the soft gray articles, he discovered they were not heavy duty gloves, but a lady's gloves, made of very fine, incredibly soft gray leather. What was more they contained traces of Daedric magicka, as though the wearer had spent many years exposed to it, with a dusty sort of feel to it.

Orphael looked back at the gates, feeling something like nausea in his stomach. He could make a guess as to what kind of person wore gray gloves, tinged with dusty magicka, and it was not the sort of person Lord Sheogorath would want in his realm. It also explained why the Gatekeeper was dead: a conventional mind and soul trying to pass the Gates. Those with the seeds of madness in full bloom got in someway else.

But how could one of _them_ have killed the gatekeeper? He frowned. They were not, as far as he knew, particularly martial individuals, preferring to huddle up with their books and quills, ghosts of their former selves as timelessness in the Apocrypha ticked on.

Orphael shuddered. Yes, it was bad for the Realm if one of _them_ got in, though he couldn't help think it was a good thing for the intruder. The Apocrypha was not a very healthy place for the living, after all. The only place more sinister- though not half so subtle – Orphael could think of belonged to the shrieking, wailing Dunmer on the ground.

Working his way back, Orphael picked out the current Mayor of Passwall. "Speak quickly, Mortal," Orphael declared firmly as he dropped his invisibility, confident enough that Relmyna's attentions would not wander over to the chattering gaggle of residents.

Sheldon jumped as the Dark Seducer blinked into existence, eyebrows drawn and an impatient look stamped across his dark features. Sheldon _hated_ it when the Seducers came to visit…though he hated it when the Golden Saints dropped in even more. The Seducers at least, were a little more patient, if still fairly stuck up. Sheldon had always, privately, wondered who had come up with the names – for neither was very saintly and most felt men and mer beneath notice as anything but sheep to be herded about. "What?"

Orphael held up the gloves. "What happened here?"

Sheldon glanced past the Seducer at the dead Gatekeeper. "Well, Jayred showed up about a week ago, then she shows up a couple days later."

"Who is Jayred, and who is 'she'?" Orphael asked. He was sure the gloves belong to the woman, but the other name meant nothing to him.

Sheldon explained hurriedly how Jayred had showed up, plotting to destroy the Gatekeeper, but without any luck in realizing his plants – not until _she_ showed up. Everyone knew she and Jayred had something going – though the rumors had quieted down from sordid tales, emerging into the truth about a plot against the Gatekeeper.

"I heard a rumor they'd gone up to the Gardens of Flesh and Bone, but the Gates were still locked when I checked up there," Sheldon continued. "Then this morning, pretty early, they both went up to the terrace, and that was the last I saw of them. Things were loud for awhile, we thought the Gatekeeper was cleaning up on them, like he always does then…" Sheldon shrugged. "Then it all went quiet. Mistress Relmyna says that's what woke her up, the quiet. She came tearing out of the Purse, then we followed her up here and…well. That's what we found."

Orphael looked at the gloves. If this Jayred succeeded only because of the woman's help, it meant she was the one he needed to find. "Tell me about this woman." Orphael declared.

"An Altmer. Tall, blonde, with funny eyes. One blue, one brown." Sheldon detailed, motioning to his own eyes.

Orphael blinked, arching his eyebrows. That would make her easy to recognize, if nothing else. "Did she say why she was here?" He knew, of course, about the Gate to Nirn, but so far very few had gotten past Haskill's interviews – or so the rumors trickling out of New Sheoth to Pinnacle Rock indicated, and such rumors were usually accurate.

"Not a word. Just poked around sort of quiet-like for a few days. Stuck up sort of mer, but then, most are. Didn't like to mingle." Sheldon shrugged. "Is she, uh, in trouble?"

"Decidedly," Orphael answered, though he kept the amused smirk off his face, as best he could. In trouble was one way to put it; a person of interest was another. He certainly wished to find this intruder before Relmyna pulled herself together and got riled up. Unfortunately, the chances were very good she was already some scalon's lunch, or had run afoul of some band of Heretics…or Zealots, he corrected himself, if she stayed in Dementia.

Sheldon watched the Seducer turn and vanish on the spot, wondering how long it would take him to catch up with the Altmer. He had to wonder why the Seducer was so determined to track her down – after all, wasn't it part of the plan, that only the truly worthy coming across from Nirn by the Gate could get in? And the only way to get in, obviously, was to kill the Gatekeeper so…why were there Dark Seducers looking for the Altmer already?

Or maybe, in this mad realm…that was the point.

Orphael did not relax until he was back in Dementia, shoring up his wards across the Gate to make sure the average individual wouldn't get through. Certainly a sane person coming through – especially through Dementia – would stay on the roads. If he followed this line of logic, he could either catch up to the Altmer as she wandered around like the witless wonder she probably was (what sort of sane person risked drawing Lord Sheogorath's ire?) or he would run into the marshals on patrol, and they could get word back to Pinnacle Rock and to New Sheoth itself about the Gatekeeper's death.

On the other hand, Orphael frowned, it might be quicker for him to bring the news himself…

If he didn't, and it came out he knew and had taken his time…he shuddered. Possibly another one way ticket to Relmyna's Realm of Torment. He didn't remember his last trip and he certainly did not want to find out what he'd forgotten. With this, Orphael took off at a brisk walk. Best to bring the message and lose track of the Altmer – though he still hoped to catch up with her on the road.

All roads led to New Sheoth, and all people wound up there, sooner or later. Assuming, of course, they did not get eaten, or trapped to be eaten later.

Orphael's decision to stick to the road paid off, though not in the way he would have liked. The payoff came in the form of a Nord, dressed in hunting gear, kneeling by the road and carefully deboning a scalon. A very big scalon – and Orphael could tell that here, at least, was the one the Mayor had called Jayred, for there was very little sign of true insanity. The seeds were there, however, evidenced in his odd leanings. A few more years and he might have found himself _invited_ to the Isles.

"You, Mortal." Orphael stepped off the road, frowning at the Nord.

Jayred looked up, then goggled at the not-really-a-Dunmer-but-pretty-damn-close. Every bit as tall as that slip of an elf, though quite a bit sturdier, the dark-skinned man was giving Jayred a rather cocky, inquisitive look. "Yeah?" he asked, nervously.

"You came through the Gates of Madness with an Altmer, did you not?" Orphael asked, prepared to look for a lie.

Jayred's hand on his knife tightened. "Who wants to know?"

Orphael frowned. "You do realize, do you not, that you are trespassing? We deal with crimes here in the Isles rather differently than you may be used to, so I would advise you to answer the question." Not strictly true – if he could get past the Gatekeeper, obviously, there was a reason why. The rest of the Isles weren't buzzing about the Gatekeeper's demise – meaning either Lord Sheogorath did not know (unlikely, Orphael felt) or he simply was not ready to act out just yet.

Jayred shifted. "I'm not doing nothing."

"Tell me about the Altmer."

Jayred shifted again. "She's a Seer," he answered uncomfortably – the only reason he could think of for the altogether too-strangeness of the elf. "She's not right in the head."

Orphael understood, of course, what a Seer was, but realized just as quickly he had never actually come across one. And the stories he had heard about them indicated more and more she was probably already dead. "You're to make your way to the city of New Sheoth. If you follow this road, you may meet my superiors on patrol. You may tell them who you are, and why you are here – they'll decide whether to allow you your liberty, or not," Orphael declared, then started off along the road.

"She's not passed this way," Jayred offered, feeling relieved that the not-a-Dunmer was leaving him well enough alone. It didn't make sense, though Jayred realized that perhaps this was expected, in the Realm of Madness. "She was behind me, you see…and hasn't passed me yet."

Orphael stopped, then looked into the gloom. "You let her wander off? A Seer, in a place like this?" The Sight made her unique, and as an Apocrypha's attendant – for Jayred certainly wasn't one – things seemed to get worse and worse. Daedra Lords hated it when their emissaries – for one reason or another – got killed in someone else's realm. Quite apart from this, Orphael held to the Mazken belief that the Mortal races were not scum and irritants – as the Aureals tended to believe – but more like herd creatures, needing keeping if they were going to survive, and needed to be treated with patience. A whole lot of patience.

A sheep was a sheep and therefore unintelligent, but it was not the sheep's fault it was born a sheep.

"Why not? I'm not her keeper," Jayred grunted.

"No, I suppose not." Orphael answered, but his tone indicated a certain amount of disgust, as he stepped off the path.

Jayred watched the man vanish into the gloom, picking his way easily through the terrain until it seemed to swallow him up. Well, if they were mad about the Gatekeeper, good they were looking for the one who did the most damage to it.

Jayred looked back down and continued deboning his prize. Oh yes, he'd get going, but first these bones.

Waste not, want not.

Cutting cross-country would allow him to get to New Sheoth faster than the Nord, Orphael knew. He also knew it was unlikely he would stumble across the Seer, alive or dead. The sheer amount of wilderness to cover made it unlikely. However, there was always a slight chance, and the extra speed in getting to New Sheoth to apprise the Mazken Captain of the Guard of the situation would at least keep her from harping too loudly.

With a sigh, Orphael wished the Seer had shown a little more sense. Natural curiosity made her an object of interest. Oh well, it seemed he would be getting over to see Bernice about that drink after all.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven: All Roads Lead to New Sheoth

Night overtook Lahallia as she picked her way across Dementia's swampy wilderness. By virtue of the fact she was nowhere near exhausted, she had not yet gone a full day's travel. However, she decided the light in the sky here meant even less than it did on the Fringe. She wished time would make sense again, missing the regularity of day and night.

She also missed the sun and the moons, forgetting how quickly one got used to having them hanging in the sky overhead, once one got out of the Apocrypha.

Here in the marshes and lake-strewn lands of Dementia, there was no sunlight, nor anything resembling the sun. Overhead the sky was little more than a greenish haze, behind which lay the usual variations of an Oblivionic sky. Now that darkness fell, starry specks shone green amongst the black, and the marks like lighting frozen in its flash streaked across the sky in shades of greener blue. A pretty sky, but still so strange. Particularly when purple clouds decided to drift lazily overhead, before vanishing a few moments later.

Water lapped softly here and there, occasionally disturbed by baliwogs or the bigger scalons splashing about. Lahallia had already had a run-in with the scalons. Disturbing as she found the massive hulks, the dark toad-like shapes prowling about almost out of sight worried her more. They made her feel as though she were being stalked, which made the paranoia this realm induced all the more potent.

Then again, she thought, nerves making her temper sharper than usual, was it paranoia, if something truly stalked her? Glancing over her shoulder she saw something duck and then vanish altogether. Detect life showed her a small, squat figure retreating at an ungainly lope – or so she interpreted the half-hopping movements. However, except for the retreating shape, and the much smaller life-glows of wildlife, Lahallia found herself very much alone.

Which only made her more nervous.

In the dim light cast by the magelights glittering around her knees like will-o-the-wisps – for company, or the illusion of company, and to confuse anything watching her, for Lahallia knew enough to walk dark lands like this with nighteye in effect - she could make out the rise of the hill ahead, darker against the darkness. The air pressed cool and damp, insinuating itself and the mild haze of apathy through the thick cloth of Lahallia's travelling gear.

The buzzes of paranoia, of shying away from shapes and sounds in the darkness finally won. She wished she had stuck to the road, like any civilized person would have done. The paranoia settling around her made her cautious, as Lahallia forged forward, checking her footing every so often. The variant on the water-walking spell proved useful enough in the marshes, but all the same, Lahallia wanted to make sure she knew what she was stepping in.

Lahallia's nervousness increased as she started up the hill's slope. Up near the crest were pale slivers of light, which at the very least stood still, silent sentries in the darkness. With the landscape dark as it was, Lahallia did not expend the power for true invisibility, but cast a lesser chameleon spell. Without a moon to give her a shadow, the Altmer felt the move prudent.

A seething discomfort of the mind continued to settle, making Lahallia scowl, and grip her sword hilt as she moved, eyes darting this way and that, vision washed vibrant blue. She stopped as soon as she could see the light sources clearly.

Not lights. Ghosts.

Standing about, still as statues, looking this way and that, the ghosts gathered on the hill, paying no mind to anything. Not to each other. Not to the single baliwog scampering between them, something like a small lizard clamped in its sharp teeth. Not even to Lahallia as she slipped past them, almost invisible.

Vision pressed on Lahallia's mind, inexorably trying to drag her down into its 'what if' mire. She lasted to the top of the hill, at which point her knees gave out, muscles stiffening as she fell. The last thing she saw were the green stars overhead, interspersed with lighting of a shade of greener blue, frozen against the sky in mid-flash.

Her magelights vanished as her conscious control over them vanished, leaving the elf lying on the ground, defenseless, and shivering in the dark.

Lahallia awoke very suddenly to see a toad-like biped peering down at her, wicked, crude cleaver in hand, its throat bulging as it breathed. Without thinking of stiff muscles, of the nauseated feeling of having slept badly, of the afterimages of too many suicides weighting on her mind, she raised both hands as if in surrender, then pushed out with a shout laced with scorching magicka, the telekinesis spell ripping from her hands, slamming the startled amphibian back.

Another one gave a croaking scream as Lahallia sat up, forcing her sluggish mind to work faster, if it wanted to continue working in future.

The grass beneath the new attackers feet exploded into flames, making it scream louder as Lahallia regained her feet, fingers tingling with warmth from the flame spell, drawing her sword. Turning sharply, she thrust the blade into the toad-like thing running at her, cleaver at the ready, as if it sought to stick it in her heart like a dart into a dartboard.

Lahallia's cold skin began to produce colder sweat, which slipped down her back beneath her damp clothes as she struggled against the dozen odd shuffling, leaping, croaking figures. The likelihood of having her throat slit while she slept had never seemed so close, which made her fight back all the more fiercely.

The toad-like creatures began to jabber, croaking and prattling in what she supposed must be their means of communication, wholly unintelligible to her pointed ears.

Wrenching her sword free of the nearest toad-thing, leaving it writhing and struggling on the ground, cleaver forgotten, Lahallia produced a handful of fire in her other hand, glittering vibrant gold, especially in the dim light and heavy fog of early swampy morning. Magicka roared pulsing and pounding through Lahallia's arm, in her very blood as sweat continued to creep down her skin.

The toad-things backed up, as if regrouping, eyeing the flames askance, debating whether or not to sacrifice one or two of their number by simply rushing her.

Lahallia threw the fireball with all her might, barking a second spell as it left her hand.

Striking the ground it singed the grass and baked the earth, the impact sending smaller fireballs skittering from the first like oversized, overzealous embers, lighting the dampened grass like tinder. Magical fire requires no fuel, but can take advantage of almost anything's flammability, with enough power behind the spell.

Lahallia, heartbeat rocking her slender body, summoned her book, letting the tome fall to the ground. It landed open to blank pages, as if expecting what came next. Pointing to the dying toad-thing she had skewered earlier upon her sword she invoked the Apocrypha's Trap, watching the toad's regrouping fellows through blazing mismatched eyes.

They watched too, as their companion writhed, shrieked, then went silent, the pages of the book blossoming with pictures and information as if Lahallia had upended an inkwell onto pretreated parchment, which only then gave up its secrets.

Lahallia swung her longsword back to the ready, pulled her knife in the other hand and planted her feet, glowering at the toad things with no pity. Heart pounding in her chest, head pounding with the aftermath of Visions and nightmares, her mood would have proved dour to begin with. Add a mess of murderous, monstrous toads with meat cleavers and her mood spiraled to something altogether black.

She might not like living with Vision as a semi-constant companion, but she never sought the cold embrace of death to end them. The indignity of finding herself killed at the hands of these primitive toadlike natives never crossed her mind, but if it had, she would have counted it another good reason to fight to the death.

The toad-folk looked from the angry elf-meat, to the book, to the place their comrade fell, but no longer lay, the witch having trapped him in the pages of her magic book. The putative leader croaked in his throat, then began to back away, bulbous eyes fixed on the angry witch.

Lahallia did not move, her mouth thin with anger and discomfort, her eyes fixed unblinking on the toads. To her inner relief, they began to slink away, backing up slowly, seeking to fade into the dim light and fog. What a waste, she thought, to have to wipe out the whole hunting party. Now it looked as though victory was assured – for her – she could afford to be generous, and merciful.

Not so when the blood was pumping and the battle in full swing.

Once they were all moving, Lahallia shouted, sending a massive fireball arcing along her sword blade. The fireball peeled off the sword like a stone from a sling, sending the toads scattering like feathers in the wind, croaking and shrieking their unconditional surrender and immediate retreat to the misty sky.

Lahallia sheathed her sword, then her dagger, then picked up her book, looking at the entry: _grummite_. Magicking the book back into her bag, Lahallia stretched until the muscles of her back, stiff from lying on her backpack most of the night – loosened.

Stomping forward, she noticed the light of day dispelled the ghosts. Trusting her good sense of direction, and the scenes she Saw during the dark hours, Lahallia set off at a quick march, magicking her clothes dry as she moved.

If all roads led to New Sheoth – as the remnant echoed in her head – then she had best forge a new road.

Lahallia finally worked her way back to the road, meeting up with the Mazken marshals on the actual road to New Sheoth. Of course, she said nothing more than to ask for directions, to make sure she was on the right track. The marshals had no idea of her involvement with the Gatekeeper's death – which had by now, reached the city, as Jayred had done – and pointed her along the way to Crucible.

"That's the Dementia side of New Sheoth, and you're best off staying there," the first marshal declared.

Lahallia thanked her, but the whole time mulled over a previous Vision, of a dark-skinned man, probably kin or of the same kind to these ladies, thrown to the ground by a golden-skinned messenger. Travel went faster on the rood, leaving Lahallia little time to ruminate too deeply – though she kept her ears open and her hand on her sword hilt, just in case.

The city of New Sheoth, or at least, the district of Crucible, was not what Lahallia expected, when she caught sight of the fantastic cascade of waterfalls outside the city gates. Inside the walls, Crucible was the most squalid, crooked, gloomy district Lahallia had ever seen.

Open sewers ran here and there, the entire city built on a grade leading literally up along the main street – which was less a main street and more a long, curving, more or less direct route to the dividing wall that separated Crucible from the Manic side.

The sky here was not the green haze of Dementia's wilderness, but a slate-blue, forbidding and threatening rain. Lahallia noticed as she picked her way up the street - uncomfortably aware of the bemused expressions of the Mazken district guards at the new arrival - the people here seemed as worn and dark as the city. Furtively scurrying here or there on whatever business they needed to attend.

So uncomfortable was the atmosphere, she ducked into the nearest public house, only to find it lacking the usual loud boisterous attitude she associated with such places. The proprietress behind the bar looked sicker than anyone Lahallia ever saw, and sniffled and groaned as she moved to comply with Lahallia's timid request for a drink.

No sense going up to the palace without her composure intact.

The atmosphere of misery kept pressing against Lahallia, to the point she abandoned the drink without touching it, all but fleeing back into the streets, which she followed up their winding, crooked, mostly cobbled path, and eventually into the Palace District of New Sheoth.

Unlike Crucible, this at least, looked fairly normal. Lahallia admired the architecture, the cleanliness of it, the way it held neither the misery of Crucible, nor – she expected – the mania of the Manic District. The air simply crackled like the Oblivion Realm it was, at last some sense of familiarity, or at least, a way to orient herself in this very strange world.

Lahallia could not wait to get out of here, back to the safe, quiet regularity of the Apocrypha, where only accidents could hurt you and the only thing to break up routine was routine of a different sort.

There were also too many stairs here, she found as she continued up the long flight of steps leading to the Palace itself, pausing only to blink at the torches on either side of the stairway – green-white on one, gold-white on the other, too clearly representing Dementia and Mania. She couldn't remember stairs in the Apocrypha, though she distinctly remembered various levels.

_A city of this and that, of yes and no; _a stray thought, maybe not Lahallia' own, drifted across her mind.

The palace itself did not feature a main door, as the Apocrypha did. Rather, it featured a triangular outcrop, with two pair of middle-sized, ornate doors, one on either side, both guarded by a pair of female guards – the Mazken and the golden-skinned Aureals. It took Lahallia a moment to remember she knew the proper name for the golden skinned, golden eyed guardians of Mania.

Uncomfortably, Lahallia approached the doors.

One of the Aureals clicked her tongue at her companion, then nodded in Lahallia's direction.

One of each of the guards stepped briskly away from the door, the Aureal glaring fiercely at Lahallia, the Mazken looking more mildly surprised than hostile at seeing her. "Speak quickly, Mortal," the Aureal snapped sharply, her eyes fixed on Lahallia. "You are in the Outer Court of the Palace of Lord Sheogorath. What is your business?"

The Mazken made a face at the Aureal, which the Aureal ignored, except to raise her chin a little higher.

Lahallia looked away from the Aureal, and addressed the Mazken. "My name is Lahallia Kiranni, of the Apocrypha. I was asked to come here, interviewed by Chamberlain Haskill, and have made my way here, from the Fringe."

The Mazken's eyebrows raised past the rim of her helmet. "Did you really? We've been waiting for you then. Which way do you prefer to enter?"

Lahallia frowned, uncomprehendingly.

"By Dementia or Mania, it's not a difficult question," the Aureal snapped.

"By Dementia, I think. Please," Lahallia answered warily, though her temper began to get the better of her. She wanted to tell the Aureal to watch her tongue, or she'd quickly find herself contributing to the catalogue of the Shivering Isles by providing the entry for 'Aureal', but Lahallia knew enough to not use the Apocrypha's Trap in a Daedric Lord's backyard. Apart from being rude, she mused as the Mazken nodded, it tended to annoy them.

The Mazken rejoined her comrade, and then both pulled open the heavy doors on their side of the entryway. "In you go. They are expecting you."

"Thank you," Lahallia answered courteously.

She did not hear the Mazken, once they closed the door. "The Apocrypha? Why there?"

"No idea," the other responded. "But she should have changed her clothes, at least. They'll offend his Lordship."

The first Mazken nodded. If the elf had come to the Palace covered in the muck and mess of the Dementia swamplands, both could have understood. But the gray clothes, gray as dust, and just about as interesting…well. It certainly would offend his Lordship.

And his Lordship had acquired, in a fit of whimsy or for some a special occasion, a clown. The Altmer would _not _like to be introduced to the clown.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

The great doors into the palace of New Sheoth led directly into the audience chamber of Sheogorath, not to a waiting room, as Lahallia expected. Of course, she thought with the beginnings of bitterness, she should _expect the unexpected_.

The sounds of music accompanied the sudden appearance of a dancer, which made Lahallia even more reluctant to simply walk in and declare herself. Rather, she stood patiently at the end of the long hall, facing Sheogorath, variously known as Sheogorath, the Skooma Cat, the Madgod, and – though only within the Apocrypha – the Shattered Mind. Lahallia knew from lore Sheogorath preferred to look like a fairly harmless old man, but the knowledge did not really prepare her for seeing him in person. Perhaps years in Oblivion had tempered her senses, or perhaps she saw with simple but keen observation: the bearded, well dressed man sitting on his throne, bouncing in his seat as he cheered the dancer, seemed less like a Daedric Lord and more like a puppet guided by said Daedric Lord's hand – as if he sat in the shadow of something much bigger, and much more menacing.

Unpredictable.

From her place near the doors, under the watchful eyes of Mazken guards, Lahallia could make out little past Sheogorath's choice of purple clothes, and that he wore a very carefully trimmed beard. Something in the dancer's movements, during the few moments Lahallia observed her, made Lahallia very uncomfortable. She could not articulate why, it was certainly a provocative way of dancing, but still within the bounds of socially acceptable.

Looking away, the split nature of the throne room became more and more apparent. Thick carpet led from the stairs at the top of which she stood to the stairs leading up to Sheogorath's chair, half of it red, half a near black green. Peering into the darkness, Lahallia found, standing upon the raised outer tier of the room, Mazken and Aureal guards – all females – watching everything and nothing.

Off to Sheogorath's right stood Haskill, looking blandly disinterested. A quick glance assured Lahallia the only individual the strings of past and future were not entangling was Haskill. And she did not know why…Lahallia's pale brows knit together, her lips pursing as Haskill caught sight of her, but made no other indication he had done so. Was it truly that they did not affect him…or was it simply that she should not _perceive_ how past and future acted upon him? A puzzle, a distraction?

Suddenly the music cut off. The dancer had vanished, and one of the Mazken took a step forward. "He will see you now. Mind you be polite." And with a jerk of her rather square chin, and a frown at Lahallia's clothes, the Mazken indicated Lahallia should enter the lower tier of the room, where the throne, the Daedric Lord, and the Chamberlain waited.

Lahallia trotted primly down the stairs, walked halfway up the carpet – careful to make a point by walking with one foot on either side of the divide - before kneeling correctly, glancing up only long enough to realize that Sheogorath's throne was actually nestled, not against a cleverly carven pillar, or wall, but a great tree. A real tree, reaching dark branches up into the recesses of a ceiling that looked much higher than it ought to – particularly as the ceiling immediately over Lahallia's head hung much lower. From here she could also see other plants growing in profusion behind the throne, though it puzzled her as to why they should be there.

Then it struck her – the same reason as the pool-like fountains flanking the lower tier: Sheogorath's fancy put them there, so there they would stay.

"Seer and Attendant Lahallia Kirrani," Haskill announced quietly to his lord, suddenly no longer on the main floor, but standing off to one side of Sheogorath's chair. "She's answering your invitation, my lord."

"Lord Sheogorath." Lahallia mumbled, glancing up, though remaining in a kneeling position as Sheogorath frowned sternly at her. This close she could no longer perceive the sense that this mortal shape was little more than a mask for something bigger. He looked like an old, somewhat eccentric Imperial…except his eyes. The eyes gave him away for what he actually was, for they were Aureal-gold.

"You!" Sheogorath stood up, accompanied by a wash of Daedric power that made Lahallia nauseous, and threatened to wrench her into the grip of Vision. "You killed my Gatekeeper!"

Lahallia's breath caught, as the feel of invisible power choking her intensified, pounding and drumming off her skin, ringing in her ears. By all laws of nature, a tiny corner of her mind screamed, she should not even hear his words over the increasingly persistent ringing…

"And you choose to appear before me in such a fashion?!" The voice was too large - it rattled in her sinuses, clanging around in her head as it had done at the Gate.

Then suddenly, Sheogorath was laughing, the pressure of Daedric magicka vanished as if it never were, the ringing stopped. Opening her eyes Lahallia found she'd crumpled off to one side, so she sat mostly on the dark side of the carpet, shivering.

Here she caught sight of her sleeve, which was suddenly the most lurid green she had ever seen in her life, covered in large vividly purple spots. Not a pretty purple, like irises or dusk, but a shade never found in nature.

And together with the green...altogether hideous. Getting slowly to her feet, she looked at the laughing Prince, her mouth dry, her lips feeling chapped. Her skin continued to prickle as she watched Sheogorath cackling, banging his staff against the floor. "Did you see her face Haskill?" He demanded, beaming, reveling slightly fanged teeth. Like a Mazken. "She thought I was going to squish her like a wee little thing what goes _squish_!" Sheogorath pounced the arm of his chair with one hand, still laughing.

"Very amusing, my lord," Haskill responded, his tone of bored condescension passing apparently unnoticed by Sheogorath.

"Well, stand up! Let's look at you!"

Before Lahallia could get her muscles to move better she found herself snatched up as if by invisible strings. Her feet did not leave the floor, but they clearly told her, her weight was not properly applied to them. Caught in the tangled web of some Daedric spell, Lahallia pushed away the sickening feeling of waiting to be pinned to the ground - like a butterfly in a collector's box, transfixed by a pin, protected by a plate of glass…safe, but very much _dead_.

The spell vanished in an instant, leaving her stumbling to regain her balance.

"Scares easy, doesn't she?" Sheogorath asked quietly, glaring speculatively at Lahallia as he stroked his beard. "And so she should…_Boo_!"

Lahallia did jump, reacting to the sudden shout, redolent with Daedric magicka, as she would have reacted to something jumping out in the Apocrypha.

As there were few things there that _should_ jump out, it was always better to attack first and ask questions later.

She threw up her magical shields, and pulled her sword in one sleek movement, to find the throne vacated.

"Now, what were you planning on doing with _that_?" Sheogorath demanded cheerfully from behind her.

Turning, she caught a glimpse of people before the hilt of her sword in her hand burned hot, making her drop it. It hit the carpet with a dull thud. She found Sheogorath uncomfortably close, just before he took her chin in his hand. Before that moment, she knew she stood taller than he, and yet he had to tilt her face _upwards_ in order to peer down into her mismatched eyes.

For a moment Lahallia's mind was a screaming blank, white canvas. Empty.

"Well?" Sheogorath's voice demanded, both in her head and in her ears.

Lahallia blinked, only to find Sheogorath had _again_ defied all laws of nature and rationale. The Prince sat upon his gilded throne as if he'd never left it, one ankle resting on one knee, balancing his staff by the narrow end in his palm – a remarkable feat of dexterity. Looking down Lahallia found her sword was back in its scabbard, safe, as if she'd never drawn it, her shields gone, but not as if the spell controlling them had suffered a shattering blow.

Lahallia swallowed, wondering if all that had happened in real life…or simply inside her head. It was never safe to assume one knew the bounds of what a Daedric Prince could or could not do. "Nothing, my lord," she answered, surprised at the calm neutrality of her own voice.

"I never want to see those gray rags again." Sheogorath scowled.

"Yes my lord," she answered, wondering what he'd do if he did, and deciding she did not want to know. Ever. Curiosity she might have, but anyone who dealt with the Daedra knew curiosity was best when contained within certain barriers.

And here, the barriers meant not questioning Sheogorath. Particularly since he seemed to swing between cheerful idiot and dangerous psychotic like a pendulum in a clock.

"But a new arrival!" he tossed his staff – cane, Lahallia corrected herself, sure it had changed shapes somehow – into the air, then caught it, resting it on the floor, his hands on the carved top. "Truly a shame about my Gatekeeper." He shook his head, still smiling. "I'm so happy I could just tear out your intestines and strangle you with them!"

He said this so cheerfully Lahallia had to blink to sort out the words from the tone. She didn't think any mortal could make such a horrible sentiment sound so pleasant.

"I suppose an introduction is in order!" Lahallia blinked again – she had been announced, and most Daedric Princes would not have felt it necessary to tell her who _they_ were – they would assume (and rightly so) she already knew. Why shouldn't she, if she was visiting them, for whatever reason? A cheerful psychopath…a dangerous idiot…Lahallia stifled a groan. Centuries of immuring herself in routine and sameness, and Azura _would_ break it up like so much ice around a door, choose _her_, sending her into this _madhouse_ without any sort of idea what she ought to do, so she could get it done quickly and leave.

"I'm Sheogorath, Prince of Madness. And other things. I'm not talking about them. You've probably figured that out by now. Let's hope so. Or we're in real trouble... and out come the intestines." Sheogorath ended in a growl, but just as abruptly, he smiled again, dazzling white, slightly fanged teeth bared in a way no one could call reassuring. "And I skip rope with them!" He sounded almost hopefully.

Lahallia, wanting to keep her intestines where they were – they were, after all, doing her so much good – nodded. "My lord." She bowed at the waist only, this time.

Sheogorath gave a loud cackle. "You see that? Catches on quick, doesn't she?" he demanded idly of Haskill, without looking away from Lahallia.

"Indeed, sire," Haskill declared, now suddenly behind Lahallia's shoulder.

Lahallia did not flinch this time, simply forcing herself to accept that a shattered mind like Sheogorath's probably couldn't stand normalcy or sameness for very long. It would not take too long, she thought grimly, before he was changing the room around – and her with it – like a child with a doll furniture. Only more menacing, more magical, and with fewer attempts to imitate 'normal life'.

"And now…a collar for the terrier!" Sheogorath announced, and when Lahallia scowled, he giggled. Not laughed – _giggled_. _Tittered. _"Take this trinket of mine. Perhaps it will serve you well. Or look lovely on your corpse."

Lahallia's hand flipped up to catch the object that suddenly appeared out of thin air, as if Sheogorath had thrown it. "Aw, now see, you've gone and ruined my fun!" Sheogorath declared.

"My apologies, my lord," Lahallia declared, feeling somewhat rankled. She did not want to spend this entire trip paying lip service to such an unpredictable Prince. The effort involved might…might…

Lahallia almost smiled – might drive her _mad_. Probably his plan in the first place, she concluded. She had no intention of going mad, so how to disappoint him and keep her entrails where they belonged?

"I've been waiting for you, or someone like you, or someone other than you, for some time," Sheogorath announced, peering almost nearsightedly at Lahallia. After a moment's deliberation he pointed at her."I need a champion, and you've got the job."

Lahallia repressed a sigh. It would be too much to ask for her to come up short, for whatever reason, and find herself sent back to the Apocrypha. At least the Apocrypha was safe. "What you would have me do, my lord?" she asked, in a quiet murmur.

"Speak up!" Sheogorath roared, making Lahallia jump again, though more from the surge of magicka in the air than the volume of his voice. She caught the signature of the magicka strongly, this time, stinking like rotting things in water, blended with something sickeningly sweet and cheerful. The melange made her stomach quiver like a frightened rabbit. "Time to save the Realm! Rescue the damsel! Slay the beast! Or _die trying_. Your help is required."

And non-negotiable, Lahallia thought. What had she done, to find herself cast out of safety and into this…this…this _madhouse_? The ruler couldn't even stay coherent for more than a few sentences. And he liked to watch her jump, apparently, which did not bode well.

"A change is coming. Everything changes. Even Daedric Princes. Especially Daedric Princes," Sheogorath continued, a little more relationally – though Lahallia used the word only loosely. Rationality was not part of Sheogorath's nature. "Daedra are the embodiment of change. Change and permanency. I'm no different, except in the ways that I am," he giggled again, as if making a clever joke.

Haskill's expression did not change at all – he had appeared back at the stairs of Sheogorath's throne.

Lahallia, however, got the distinct impression that, whatever the joke, Haskill got it. She did not bother glancing at the Aureal or Mazken guards, she expected they would show nothing more than stony watchfulness, like statuary to grace the throne room, until such time as trouble arose.

"The Greymarch is coming, Attendant. And ready or not, you're going to stop it," Sheogorath finished, his tone decidedly dangerous.

Lahallia nodded mutely. She could not remember ever hearing such a term as 'Greymarch' – though it sounded quite ominous. "What is the Greymarch?" she asked, gently biting the tip of her tongue, unseen by any.

"The details aren't important." Sheogorath waved a hand, light glinting off minute golden threads in his clothing, golden glitters Lahallia failed to notice at any point previously. "At least not right now. Eternity is on a rather tight deadline. We'll get back to that later."

Lahallia nodded again, thinking back to how oddly time behaved on the Fringe, assuming time behaved oddly here, and wondering what that would do to a deadline, or perceptions thereof. Could Sheogorath, perhaps, buy her time to do what it was he needed done…or might it speed up, and render any effort moot? The conundrum of time's odd behavior on Sheogorath's realm tweaked her interest enough for her to stop absently clutching a hand over her stomach, as if to protect her entrails. Moreover, would her need for rest – such as elves did – remain fixed, or would it fluctuate, with the odd times for 'day' and 'night'?

She knew better than to assume one way or the other, she would just have to wait to find out. "What would you have me do, my lord?" Lahallia squashed the notion of feeling as though she were repeating herself.

"Now?" Sheogorath scowled, leaning back towards psychotic. "Now, _you_ run an errand for _me_. An important one. Of course, anything I tell you to do is important. My Realm, my rules." He narrowed his eyes as if to say she should not forget that.

Lahallia's hand closed over the pendant Sheogorath had cast at her earlier, feeling Daedric magicka buzz beneath her hand, not taking in an iota of information about what spells lay in the corporeal shape of it. All her thoughts and worries suddenly bent on listening to what Sheogorath had to say.

And then to getting out of his sight as quickly as possible, before he had a chance to do something nasty to her.

"You're going to Xedilian," Sheogorath waved. "One of my favorite spots in the Isles. It's a little place I use to take care of unwanted visitors. And some are more unwanted than others."

Lahallia took a half step back, knowing whatever else he had said so far, he had not forgiven her for killing the Gatekeeper. Not _the_ Gatekeeper, _his_ Gatekeeper.

"The Gatekeeper takes care of most of the unwanted, but he's dead." Lahallia flinched. "We'll have to remedy that soon, as well…" Sheogorath fell silent, sitting down to sprawl in a most dignified manner in his throne, fingering his beard, balancing his cane in one hand, much as one might idly toy with fingernails, or gnaw at their lower lip. "Anyway…there are those that have other ways into my Realm, and they're on the move. We don't want them here. Trust me." Sheogorath's eyes shifted to rest on Lahallia. He took a long moment, looking her up and down.

Lahallia resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest, protectively. She remembered the feeling of Hermaeus Mora scrutinizing her, all those years ago, when she finally reached the Apocrypha. Those invisible eyes, the slimy flail of tentacles, which she expected to reach out of the darkness and wrap around her…

"So, you're going to get Xedilian up and running," Sheogorath continued cheerfully. "Here's a little book to tell you how, and the Attenuator of Judgment. You'll need that, too." Both objects appeared off to one side of Lahallia, on the brink of one of the long stream-like fountains edging the lower tier of Sheogorath's throne room.

Lahallia picked up both. The Attenuator – cross between a tuning fork and a dousing rod – was not made of any of the normal metals. Whatever it was, she could feel its disposition towards conducing magical energy. Twirling it carefully in her fingers, she looked at the book, the cover stamped with squiggly letters, like a child's handwriting.

Either from nerves, or because the individual was poorly lettered to begin with.

"Of course, you can always get more details from Haskill. He's a detail-oriented type of person. A big help. And a snappy dresser. You'd get along, except you don't." The 'snappy dresser', Lahallia thought acidly, did not appear thrilled at playing informant to an Apocrypha Attendant on some fool's errand for the Lord of Madness.

Well, she didn't enjoy his company either – if the information was in the book, she'd gladly decipher wobbly letters all day.

"Now, get going. Before I change my mind," Sheogorath growled, startling Lahallia. "Or my mind changes me."

For a moment the Altmer opened her mouth, sensing some underlying significance to the words, but her nerves for questioning an unbalanced Daedric Prince failed. Instead she bowed politely and withdrew, juggling the attenuator, book, and pendant in her hands. One of the Mazken guards opened the door for her, letting Lahallia out into a balmy night of cool breezes and hints of moisture.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen: Crucible

Orphael waited patiently in Grakedrig Alrisse's office, in the small wing of House Dementia which served as billeting for the Mazken detachment assigned to provide security. Another rumor of a plot to kill Syl was circulating, and if he ever found out who'd started it, he was going to find a way to wrap them in cheese and leave them to the mercy of monstrous rats.

Orphael shook his head, as if to make the mad thought fly out of one of his ears. Wrap them in cheese and feed them to monstrous rats. That was a thought for the residents of the Isles, not a Mazken in the service of Sheogorath.

"Report." Alrisse's low, gravelly voice accompanied her as she entered the small room that served as an office. The heavy hangings of dark green and blue-black not only dampened sound reverberating off the walls – a problem in all quarters of the palace – in some places they masked passages elsewhere.

"The Gatekeeper's been destroyed," Orphael began.

"Yes, we know. The one who did it was here not long ago." Alrisse sat down behind the desk, her characteristic frown of concentration showing beneath the fringe of her very short hair. Alrisse did not usually use this office, feeling herself put to better use _doing_ things elsewhere. The room showed this. It also showed she shared the office with another workspace-scorning Mazken – Orphael suspected Nelrene, whom he had so far managed to avoid.

The Mazken had a form of bureaucracy, Alrisse thought dryly, and a practical one. Leave the idea of duty as a desk-warmer to the Aureals.

What was the use of being a scout if one could not remain unobserved? "Damn, I was hoping…"

"That either she got eaten by a scalon, or you'd get here first. Continue," Alrisse prompted.

Orphael produced the Key of Mania, setting it carefully on Alrisse's desk. He did not like to touch the key more than he had to. It felt too..._Manic_. "She left this inside the Gates – I thought it should not be left unattended."

"Indeed." Alrisse did not touch the key, merely looked at it, feeling the press of its aura against her skin like so many dancing bugs. "Anything else?"

Orphael shook his head. So, the elf survived the cross-country walk after all.

"She's on an errand for Lord Sheogorath, so I suggest you give up the chase and return to your regular duties" Alrisse declared idly. Best she get to doing something about Syl's latest waking nightmare before Syl had her executed for inefficiency. Death might not be permanent for a Mazken, but it was still uncomfortable to _die_ – particularly if that wretch Syl was involved.

"Of course, Grakedrig," Orphael saluted. "I merely wished to keep you apprised of the situation."

"So you've done." She waved a hand as she got to her feet, her armor clinking gently. "Off you go."

Orphael turned, striding out of the office, and straight into Nelrene.

Nelrene looked ready to say something – possibly to rankle Orphael, while he could not sink in his own claws in retaliation – but Alrisse stepped out right behind him. Unlike Nelrene, Alrisse demanded nothing less than marvelous efficiency, and felt such petty displays of baiting another Mazken – particularly a male not even stationed in the palace - a mark of weak discipline and weaker dedication to duty.

Alrisse could very easily request a new Second Officer, and Nelrene as not willing to sacrifice her position and responsibilities just to bait Orphael.

Orphael stepped along wordlessly, leaving Nelrene to stew in silence, smirking once he reached the end of the hall. Turning, he caught Nelrene's eye, winking at her cheekily before vanishing out of sight.

Lahallia did not take time to explore New Sheoth, though she would have liked to. Instead, she did as duty dictated, asking directions of the nearest Mazken to the nearest inn. This directed her to Sickly Bernice's Taphouse – which was so well-named Lahallia almost gaped – where she now sat, ensconced in one of the inn's small rooms upstairs, dutifully reading the Manual of Xedilian. Normally Lahallia enjoyed time away from duty to read, but this was hardly pleasure reading.

Finding the atmosphere of the inn conducive to quiet reading surprised Lahallia, and she even tried it. The unpleasant press of the air, the general atmosphere and Bernice's near constant sniffles and groans drove Lahallia to expend the gold to get away from the distractions. She did not fear catching whatever it was the proprietress had.

Though whatever it was certainly sounded bad.

So far, she had very little idea where Xedilian actually was, though she also planned to ask the apparently knowledgeable Mazken guards. It puzzled her somewhat that of all the guards – and she felt she had seen so many – there were no males among them. Not that it should matter, but it did puzzle her. Even the battle-hardened Dremora had female counterparts and they tended to be just as competent. Some theorized 'more competent' than the usual Dremora summoned by mortal races, because Mehrunes Dagon kept them as his palace guard.

Others put forth theories less fit for polite company.

Lahallia maintained the theory that Mehrunes Dagon didn't draw the lines of division quite that way. In her experience, the bigger the Dremora, the meaner they were. Which was why Mehrunes Dagon kept the smaller, less imposing Dremora at home with him, for who would be stupid enough to attack him in his own palace?

Lahallia also suspected many people _could_ see a female Dremora…and not realize the 'he' they fought was actually a she. All Dremora were fierce and very ugly to look upon.

Lahallia stifled a giggle. Neither here nor there, it was probably true. Several hundred pounds of Daedric plate and a helmet _would_ confuse the details. And who would care about a Dremora attacking them, past not wanting to end up spattered on the floor, or trussed up to hang like curing meat? Or…her smile faded slightly, or take back to the Deadlands with them.

It did cause her a small twinge of conscience, how fascinating the structure of Xedilian promised to be. Twisted, decidedly deranged, but _fascinating_. Sooner or later Sheogorath would want it _tested_ – just to make sure it still worked. She pitied the souls ensnared, much preferring another round with the Gatekeeper, than trying to traverse the 'tests' of Xedilian.

The childish scrawl also made sense – apparently the author penned this manuscript under some duress. Had the writer ended up testing Xedilian himself, giving a demonstration to a Daedric Lord with the attention span of a…?

Lahallia couldn't think of a word to complete the question, much to her own surprise. Despite the appearance of continually veering off topic while speaking with Sheogorath, the conversation had never left the salient point of instructing her as to what Sheogorath wanted her to do.

He just took the scenic route to get there. No one could call his directions clear cut, the apparent test of her skills aside. Paradox, Lahallia thought, waving her magelight closer to the manual, her smile having faded from her face like dying light at dusk. A complete paradox.

With her full attention on the manual, failed to notice she had not changed her clothes' color back to gray, leaving them ghastly green with massive purple polka dots.

Sickly Bernice looked up as the bell over the door clunked dismally. Since she had first arrived here, the bell had never worked properly. She sniffled,dabbing her nose with a hankderchief. It would probably give her headaches if it rang day in, day out. Not that she got much business, but still. If the bell worked, business would boom, and bring on the headaches.

Her sniffle became a smile – and therefore a snort - at the sight of the new patron, dressed neatly as any official courier from the Court of New Sheoth in black and Dementia green. Not the usual nearly iridescent armor the Mazken guards usually preferred, which made them look like deadly, wingless dragonflies.

"Good afternoon, Bernice," Orphael smiled at her. It was less his usual cheeky grin – reserved for irking others – and much more benign. Orphael's soft spot for the hypochondriac sprang from the fact he had rescued her before bringing her here. He did not remember the entire set of circumstances, except that she was one of his finds. People sometimes slipped through the chinks into the Isles. Sometimes they even survived to take up residency.

"Good afternoon, my lad!" Bernice sniffled, producing a blue handkerchief, into which she blew her nose noisily. "Oh, excuse me," she sniffled.

Orphael sat down on one of the stools facing the bar. If he ever found out which lunatic planted the idea in Bernice's head about the curing draught from Knotty Bramble…

The unexpected thought blossomed like the insanity it was: he would wrap the idiot in _bacon_ and feed him to the scalons.

What was it, Orphael wondered, about thoughts of wrapping people up in food, and feeding them to other things?

Not the most insane thoughts he'd ever had - he would never forget the time a unit to which he was attached had stumbled across a small band of Sanguinites on a tour of the Planes. _That_ was interesting. When one could taste colors, hear light and smell sounds, there was a problem. Particularly when an entire unit of Mazken was suffering the same ill effects.

He shuddered imperceptibly to anyone but himself, producing a small phial of glowing liquid. "For my ailing lady," he declared courteously, watching Bernice's expression grow puzzled. The last time he'd brought her such a token, it was purple. Today however, the water – for it was simply water, spelled to glow – shone brilliant, luminous green.

Sickly Bernice's expression broke into a smile as she came to an unassailable conclusion: Mazken would have better methods of treating sicknesses within their own than the all-cure from Knotty Bramble. And of course, as Orphael had such a soft spot for her, he would see she got the very best. Not unlike a young lad looking after an aging grandmother – though Bernice's mind refused to register Orphael was far older than she, or even her family line. "Thank you," she smiled, taking the phial before downing it greedily.

Bernice's hypochondriac tendencies were not new. Orphael was fairly certain it had to do with her circumstances before he rescued her – though he did not remember the actual rescue, only that since time moved oddly here in the Isles, it could have been a very long time ago.

He thought a swamp might have come into the story at some point, but could not be sure. Most of Dementia was swampland to begin with.

Orphael repressed a smile. Humans were such odd creatures. Like all Mazken, he considered the mortal races to be somewhere above sheep, but not by much. They needed constant watching, for their own safety of no one else's, and shepherding in order for them to be useful. Still, one could grow fond of the flock.

Orphael knew he was procrastinating, but he felt no twinge of guilt. Best let that slip of Altmer get well away from the city, or she'd think she was being _followed_. He was in no particular hurry.

His real line of reasoning was a desire to put off going into Mania, to study any obelisks in that part of the Isles. The fact that Bernice, whatever her failings, knew her drinks and somehow kept herself well-stocked made procrastination easier.

Orphael did not try to unravel who her suppliers were, assuming that it might just be a trick of the Isles. It was like that all over the city – supplies simply existed, with no clear source.

_To Lord Sheogorath_, Orphael thought benignly as he accepted a cup from Bernice.

Lahallia shouldered her backpack, then brushed her jacket down, as if removing dust. The lurid colors imposed by Sheogorath seemed to flake away from the gray like scales on a butterfly's wings, until once again she stood clad entirely in soft, dust-colored gray.

Lahallia walked halfway across the room before she realized what had changed, in the time between her taking out a room upstairs and now. There were three patrons in the bar, two sharing a table in a quiet corner (and looking highly sinister) and one at the bar, speaking quietly with Bernice.

And Lahallia was quite sure that _here _was the male Mazken, about whose existence she had wondered, dressed rather more fashionably than she expected.

Despite the similarity to a Dunmer, there was something about him that screamed 'I'm _not_ an elf'. Something that left Lahallia more aware than usual of the threads of past and future wrapping thick and strong around him. A maker, a doer, one of those rare people whose very _existence_ influenced the future and wrote out the past.

Lahallia gave him a wide berth as she finished crossing the room. Get too close, she was sure, and she'd end up seizing on the floor, trapped in a web of Vision she did not want. As if on cue, the familiar feel of separation from _now_ to _look elsewhen _came over her.

"Leaving so soon?" Bernice asked, for once managing to speak without sniffling – the first time Lahallia had heard her do so. In fact, she looked quite healthy.

"Yes. I have errands to attend. Thank you." Lahallia inclined her head politely, turned, and stepped out of the door, closing it firmly but almost silently behind her.

Orphael did not bother shifting in his seat to look at the leaving woman. All mortal magicka felt the same when casters weren't actively using it, feeble, weak, vulnerable. He would still have liked to know how the elf helped the Nord get past the Gatekeeper – for certainly, that Jayred character was having no luck prior to the Altmer's timely appearance.

Orphael made a mental note to stay far, far away from Xaselm, in case Relmyna – mad with grief – decided to go on an experimentation spree, for which she would need to collect many new specimens. He absently touched his shoulder, as if it tingled with forgotten or remembered pain. Scary woman, there was nothing else to it.

"Such an odd girl," Bernice murmured, shaking her head and beginning to clean the bar with renewed vigor. It would, Orphael knew, not last, this spurt of feeling healthy.

"Who?" he asked blandly.

"The young Altmer, just left." Orphael looked up, though Bernice did not notice she had come under scrutiny. "Drifted in, and sat down to read. Asked if she could take out a room not much longer after that. Doesn't even stay the night. Pretty thing, I suppose, but those eyes…" Bernice shook her head.

"What about her eyes?" Orphael kept his tone controlled, fighting back a groan. _Only_ in the Madhouse…

"Mismatched, you know," Bernice chattered happily. "Looks a bit ghastly if you're not expecting it…oh, going so soon?"

Orphael blinked at the startling coincidence, before deciding such a distinguishing feature could not be coincidence at all. "I'm actually not supposed to be here," he beamed winningly, letting natural charisma take over as he got to his feet. "I may be back later, though."

Bernice smiled at the thought of a visit when he probably had more important orders to carry out. She also held him up, sending him on his way only after packing him a lunch.

Orphael wanted to hit his head against the bar – blast his own patience with mortals, and his encouraging them! It remained no wonder the elf was gone before he got out of the city. He could see no sign of her, either on the road, or in the immediate swamplands.

Swearing silently to himself, Orphael scowled, mulling over what he wanted to do. Tracking down the Altmer who killed the Gatekeeper – or took at least half credit for doing so - would give him a reason to postpone his trip to Mania.

His determination to study the spires, to find out what they were, what they did, won out. The Mazken garrison here knew about the Altmer, knew where she was. Surely her doings were none of his business, or someone would have told him to keep an eye on her.

Which meant the time for the trip to Mania was now.

On cue, his nose began to twitch, as if the spores and pollen of Mania already teased it.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen: Xedilian

The hazy swamps of Dementia did not raise the hair on Lahallia' neck, as she made her way along the Low Road, veering south from New Sheoth. The simplistic map in her hand indicated she should continue along the Low Road until it crossed with Pinnacle Road, then follow that until reaching Xedilian itself, which the map indicated as standing on the wayside. This long path put Xedilian almost on the other end of the Isles from New Sheoth – not a short journey.

All in all, with her inner sense of time so off balance from the inconsistent concepts of day and night, Lahallia decided to plan as though she needed to stop to rest, at some point between New Sheoth and Xedilian. She wondered, too, whether distance was not also something Sheogorath liked to play with – one never knew with Daedric Princes, particularly the insane ones.

Unfortunately, the map did not list towns or settlements, though surely, they both existed. Tucking the map into the inner pocket of her jacket, Lahallia shifted uncomfortably as the clammy air began to seep chill into her sweaty skin. Perhaps, with a night in a town or settlement's inn, a bath could be found. The idea of that simple pleasure made Lahallia smile hopefully. Granted, inns tended to collect material for Visions like dogs collected burrs in their fur, but Lahallia's somber mood disposed her to clutch at straws.

Darkness began to settle again, adding to a gloom that not even the magenta life lights of native creatures, or a spell of night-eye could brighten. Her first excursion into the swamps was not a wasted lesson, making her doubly careful as she tried not to cough and hack as the cold, moist air settled into her lungs, lurking like misfortune, adding to the weight of discomfort both of mind and body.

Passing the Hill of Suicides set Lahallia's skin crawling as Vision pressed threateningly against her, to the point she finally stopped walking to gape stupidly in the direction of the hill as the powerful objects of restless spirits reached out in despair and agony…tried with all her might to free herself from the drawing force of Vision, tried to get away. The distance surely lessened the pull, but she could still feel it…

"Greetings, Mortal."

It was enough. Lahallia jumped, pivoting sharply to see a pair or Mazken females, guards, stopping just ahead of her as they headed towards New Sheoth. For a moment the threat of possible danger gave her just that much more will to look at the _now, _to tear herself away from _later_, or _once was_.

"Greetings, Mazken," Lahallia answered, swallowing to alleviate the sudden dryness of her mouth. The Hill still loomed ominous, like a monster's head rooted in the ground, glowing spectral eyes focused upon her. "Perhaps I might inquire of you for directions?" Politeness, she thought, would get her further than anything else, as she examined the Mazken.

Both stood close to her own height, both dressed in armor Lahallia found, if anything, wholly impractical – light armor, in the most literal sense Lahallia ever saw. And yet, she wondered what it would be like to squeeze herself into such a getup, and whether the dark and iridescent material of it would suit her pallor.

She suspected not, certain she would look nothing short of ghostly, possibly even ghastly. Not, her vanity declared somewhat mollified, that she lacked figure for it; she was simply too pale.

"Speak quickly. Our presence is required at the Dementia Garrison." The first nodded in the direction of New Sheoth, hand resting unconsciously on the hilt of her sword, ready for any trouble, forthcoming or not.

"Why?" Lahallia could not stop the question, impertinent though she could tell the Mazken found it.

"Because Duchess Syl," the second declared coldly – though Lahallia somehow did not think the coldness was actually directed at her, "will eventually decide one or another of us was plotting against her, and demand that unfortunate Mazken's immediate _death_. We're sent to bolster the ranks, for when the inevitable happens. So to New Sheoth we go." The Mazken's expression became forbidding as she settled into silence, arms crossed, head bowed, jaw jutted out.

Lahallia gaped, before realizing she was, and then closed her mouth. The idea of someone, even the Duchess, using the Mazken so cavalierly unsettled her. She could not do it, not the least because her experience with Daedric Princes indicated them to show extreme possessiveness as to the things which were theirs.

Especially Malacath.

"She didn't need to know that, Aisille," the other Mazken murmured, looking from the Altmer to her companion.

"What's it matter? Syl'll send Eylara the same direction, and Nelrene, and you, and me if the mood's on her. Damn paranoid stump of a Bosmer." Aisille growled.

"She's Lord Sheogorath's Choice…" The other tried again. Lahallia knew this conversation did not pertain to her, though she found it incredibly interesting. Certainly as insight on whom she ought to put energy into avoiding in New Sheoth. Syl did not sound like the sort of individual Lahallia wanted to meet, and a small part of Lahallia's mind informed her she rarely met Bosmer she actually liked, and Syl would probably not make that list.

If the Mazken disliked the Countess so much, perhaps there was something to the paranoia. Particularly with the amount of dislike Aisille radiated, pouring in from all sides. No, perhaps Syl was right, on some level. Then again, paranoia rarely had solid foundations, and failed to win the hearts and minds of followers.

"Yes, but only from lack of options," Aisille declared firmly. "She's certainly not as competent as the last one…Duke whatshisname." Aisille waved, after fumbling about for the name.

Lahallia frowned – surely the Mazken should remember the previous Duke? "I was just hoping to find a settlement, or inn between here and Xedilian." She reigned the conversation back in, fairly certain if she did not, the Mazken would stomp off to the city in a bad mood, and without providing directions.

"There isn't one," Aisille declared, her mood still soured. "No settlements that way, unless you count Vitharn, or Pinnacle Rock. Don't bother heading to the Rock, though. It's off limits to Mortals." She added as an afterthought.

"Oh?" Lahallia meant it as a filler word, something to simply take up space as she thought.

The Mazken, on the other hand, took it as a genuine inquiry. "She must be new around here." The elf's clothes proclaimed her an outsider, but how odd to find an outsider who knew of Xedilian. "Pinnacle Rock, our headquarters," the quieter of the two Mazken – and, Lahallia gauged, the more by the book of them – declared kindly.

"What about Vitharn?" Lahallia's shoulders slumped as the thought of no safe place to stop began to sink in, cutting through her interest in the conversation, and the doings at court. Roughing it in the swamps did not appeal to her very poorly defined sense of adventure, or to her overwhelming common sense. This was no adventure, more like a failsafe way to get her throat slit by Grummites, or let scalons have ample opportunity to gobble her up, or who knew what else.

"Cursed. By Lord Sheogorath – so I'd stay away from there anyway. What business do you have in Xedilian?" Aisille demanded, looking Lahallia up and down, eyes lingering on the soft, monotonous gray the elf wore.

"It's not obvious?" The other Mazken asked, frowning. "With the Gatekeeper dead? His Lordship won't want the borders open for every sane person to get in. It'd ruin the Isles, then he'd have to cleanse them. Heh, the real madpeople wouldn't like that, not at all." She shook her head, smiling almost fondly at the mention of madpeople. Not unlike a governess, with small children in her care.

Aisille looked wrong footed. "Oh, yes. I suppose it makes sense…amazingly enough." Shaking her head, the Mazken eyed Lahallia. "There's no settlement or anything, except a couple campsites here and there," she waved offhandedly. "You might have to liberate a spot, if you want one. My advice is to simply get along to Xedilian and get done whatever His Lordship set you to do. Then get back to New Sheoth and sleep there. It doesn't do to keep Lord Sheogorath waiting. He doesn't like it."

"No, I suppose not," Lahallia answered, not correcting the Mazken that technically as an elf, she did not need to stop travelling to 'rest'. She did, however, think it incredibly inadvisable to wander around without her full attention on her surroundings, especially here. From the sound of it, though, the Mazken didn't need to sleep at all. "Thank you." She inclined her head, then turned, setting off on the road before the Hill could exert its influences again.

A mental note not to go anywhere near Vitharn accompanied the real note in her catalogue about the Isles, proposing a theory that Mazken did not need to sleep as much as humans or mer, perhaps not needing to at all. The idea of sleepless ranks unsettled Lahallia. Not to mention the idea sounded particularly fantastical, so she scowled at the entry, then scribbled it out, the book absorbing the ink, which reformed into a proper sentence ending.

Too many theories and suppositions.

Lahallia continued, musing to herself. Where were the Mazken in the city based – in the Court of Lord Sheogorath, or in the House of Dementia? Ought she to have paid her respects to the Duchess and…and whoever ran the other court? Reason and obvious proofs indicated the existence of a second Duke or Duchess, for all things in the Isles gave the appearance of having an opposite. Aureals and Mazken. Bliss and Crucible. Dementia and Mania. The very nature of the Isles personified, this in itself a fascinating subject for study.

Lahallia's feet continued to move, her vision washing blue with magenta life glows over it again, the spells renewed. Such a pity she considered herself a wallflower. Lahallia's mind wandered, but not far, curious about the intrigues of the courts of New Sheoth. Half of her wished the Mazken on the road travelled the same direction as she needed to. The other half was not so sure. Patient and succinct they might be, but she did not think they had a very high tolerance for the idiocy or ignorance of common folk. Particularly visiting outsiders who showed no strain of madness.

"I am not mad. I will not _go _mad. I belong to the Apocrypha, and there I shall return," Lahallia declared quietly, using the cipher. The words did little to make her feel better, but the little helped. Perhaps it was simply the way the air clung so clammy-cold and chill. Perhaps it was the lack of sunlight, or any approximation thereof, or the fog springing up as the gloom darkened.

Whatever it was, it did not take Lahallia long to realize Dementia had a way to getting into a person's mind, into their blood, making thoughts dark and leaden, causing hope and optimism to cloud over, disappearing into ominous silence. Blank spots made the worse by offering incontrovertible evidence of _something missing_ in the surroundings of the world.

Lahallia stopped, automatically turned, then left the path. At first she did not realize what she chased, until she stood in front of it. A spire of dull gray, almost matte-finished metallic crystal thrust up through the marshy ground. A massive parody of crystals growing in caves, and yet…

Without thinking Lahallia touched the crystal, first gently with her fingertips, then with her whole palm, until she stepped up and actually leaned against the structure as best she could, as if leaning into a lover, her cheek pressed against the structure, giving the impression of listening for a heartbeat.

Lahallia stepped back, taking off her glove, and pressing her palm to the crystal. Neither cold, not warm, nor wet nor dry. She marveled: as if air itself were made solid, it existed and yet…and yet unlike crystalline structures, sometimes used as focuses for the Sight, this conjured up none. Not so much as a vibration of Vision. It did not take Lahallia long to realize what drew her here, like a moth to flame: the spire, and the area immediately around it were virtually null with Vision triggers.

She missed it at first, thinking about the absence of hope and optimism, mistaking the 'hole' in the world as correlating with her thoughts, but no. Lahallia stepped back, until she could feel the Isles odd magicka energy, hanging in the air like cobwebs, then stepped forward.

Nothing.

A step back – sickly sweet, like something rotting…

A step forward – blissful nothing.

"You don't belong here," She announced to the spire, as she produced her book and quill, staring with fascination at the spire, surrounded by smaller crystalline structures. A safe place, a perfect place. Lahallia stepped into the small gap between the spire and one of the offshoots, sitting down, arranging herself as comfortably as she could, relaxing as certainty crept over her.

Nothing present could trigger Vision, could send her careening into that dangerous place of defenselessness and jumbled nonsense. Surely, she continued sketching the spire, adding annotations of her observations, living things – like Mazken – could trigger a Vision within the bounds of the Spire's influence, but as it stood, just now…

…it was the perfect place for a tired elf to take pause and rest, before continuing her journey.

Belonging in the Isles or not, Lahallia felt a weary smile grace her features as she banished her book back into her backpack, casting a minor ward to warn her if anything came close. A search with detect life revealed something she expected, but had not hoped for. It seemed to Lahallia as if the life lights in the area close to the spire avoided it, like a dead or leprous spot in the landscape, useless or contagious.

A little piece of perfection, Lahallia whispered in her mind. She had to find out what it was, to whom it belonged, where it came from. Whatever sort of person placed it here, whatever sort of place it belonged…could possibly, as a whole, maintain the same characteristic as this small part.

Imagine it, her eyes half-closed, a place with no triggers, and no Visions. Secure. Safe.

Boring. The unbidden thought nearly caused Lahallia to jump back to wakefulness, but only nearly.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen: A Better Mousetrap

--SI--

The ruin of Xedilian brooded just off Pinnacle Road at the end of an obvious and overgrown avenue, a crumbling specter of grandeur long gone and usefulness outlived. The surrounding land gave the impression of trying to swallow the edifice, thick moss and high grasses growing close to the white stone, reminiscent of Ayleid ruins, yet completely different. Massive tree roots sprawled like fingers trapping a spider, the swamps nearby giving evidence of the water levels usually somewhat higher than at present. The strange tentacle-like growths Lahallia did not want to investigate too closely, hung limply over the rocks as the greenish haze overhead thinned to something bluer.

The tentacle-like plants – the sample of which Lahallia conjured into the catalogue with other such samples of local flora – gave little reassurance. Something about them reminded her too much of some varieties of harrada roots – thick tentacle like growths with a disposition towards strangling the unwary. The entry for 'swamp tentacles' did not mention any predatory habits, but Lahallia exercised due caution nonetheless, before moving towards the heavy 'side' doors of Xedilian. According to the notes in the Manuel, the 'front' door reserved for those undergoing testing.

The sense of conscience and morality in Lahallia argued Xedilian was just as brutal as the Gatekeeper, even more so in some ways. The Attendant in her argued that morality did not come into the equation - it _was_ a feat of fascinating insight into the knowledge of the mind.

Particularly knowledge in how to _break_ the mind. Giving the unfortunate individuals the 'blessing' of the Madgod, and thus, permission to join the ranks of those welcome in the Isles.

Or, if the individual responsible for Xedilian chose, death was an always-appropriate end for those who came unbidden to the Isles. Sheogorath did not seem particularly fussy either way - mad or dead – so long as _something _happened to those who invaded his personal piece of Oblivion.

Just like a Daedric Prince, Lahallia concluded, as she started along the narrow stone walkway leading like a drawbridge to the only entrance of Xedilian accessible to the Isles. For a moment at the door, she toyed with waving the amulet Sheogorath had given to her, though this idea did not last very long. The Charity of Madness – or so said the inscription on the back of the pendant – did not have any magicka leading her to believe it functioned as a key.

It _did_, however, reinforce her resistance to destructive magicka – a useful token for an Altmer – though it boded ill if it were a clue of things to come.

The grummite standing by the door – doing who knew what to the entrance – had no chance, finding itself frozen in place, a sparkling statue of a very ugly frog-thing.

Using her sword as a lever against the door, Lahallia shifted the grummite statue, letting it bounce down from the walkway. Every hit against the stones in the region shattered the statue further, until only glittering chunks lay in the swampy waters below, thawing in the sun.

Near the entrance, just below waist height, rested a pushpad. Lahallia reached over, giving it a hesitant but firm push, her longsword gripped tightly in her off hand, the fingers of the right crooked, prepared to wrench a spell from nothing. Despite the lack of precedent, something warned her magicka might just go awry when she most needed it.

The door slid open along a diagonal split, from one upper corner to the lower, a wash of musty, cool air hitting Lahallia. More than musty or dusty, it smelled like amphibian, scat, worse things she did not want to name, and – oddly – plain old dirt. Xedilian might currently slumber, but the latent magicka used to power it certainly had not dissipated. Full of the dual-signature magicka which seemed less pervasive to Lahallia, the old ruin took on more in common with a sleeping dragon than a disarmed mousetrap.

Lahallia cast detect life silently, her vision hazing over with the presence of grummites – lots of grummites. Well, hopefully she could avoid any spawning grounds; the idea of grummite eggs and grummite goo on the eggs all over her boots made her squeamish.

Another benefit of living in the Apocrypha, she thought acidly as she set off down the stairs, opening the door at the bottom. It was easier to keep oneself clean. Mud and sweat she could and had tolerated well, but grummite eggs and any goo accompanying them certainly represented a line she did not want to cross.

When had she gotten so squeamish? The thought inserted itself like a pinprick to a finger, sharp, concise…and entirely worthy of consideration. When _had_ she gotten so squeamish? The possibility of Vision aside…

At that moment she heard grummite chatter further ahead, felt the threat of Vision press against her, as if reminding her she could never avoid it for long, never be rid of it.

More odd than speculations drifting across Lahallia's mind were the grummites, with their mismatched shapes and staring, lidless, almost blank eyes, little more than vibrant pillars of magenta glow with merciless unwieldy cleavers in Lahallia's bespelled vision. The sounds of webbed feet striking the floor as the grummites scrambled upon Lahallia's unexpected appearance – probably a retreat with the intent to swarm against her, for the purpose of providing supper for the next day or two – while Lahallia herself wasted no time.

The dull-sheened silver sword of the Apocrypha did not flash bright in the dingy torchlight of Xedilian. It glimmered with magicka, from spells all painstakingly cast upon the blade by unknown makers, spells of keeping keen edges, of finding its marks, and destroying its enemies. Much still rested in the abilities of the wielder, but the only weapons of better quality tended to be custom made, for a single individual.

_Clank_, the longsword blocked a crude cleaver, Lahallia's superior height working to her advantage, allowing her to tear the weapon away from the grummite's webbed hands, sweeping the blade back around in time to push it at a downward angle through the grummite's chest. Tacky, sticky dark blood marred the blade for a moment, fading as some spell cast upon the blade burned through the blood, keeping the weapon clean.

Adrenaline pushed fear of Vision to a distant, unpleasant memory as Lahallia gave chase after the grummites, glad of having catalogued them earlier. Finally, Lahallia turned a corner to find the two grummites formerly fleeing from her had rallied support in the form of two more grummites, all carrying lethal looking cleavers of the sort she associated with this particular sort of foe, and small round bucklers.

One of the grummites chattered at her, rasping, spitting and gargling deep in its pallid throat.

Lahallia, knowing the outcome of simply reasoning with a grummite, raised her sword to guard position, her other hand, low at her side, ready to lob the spell she murmured half under her breath.

Apparently the idea of getting bunched together meant little to the toad-men.

_Boom_. Grummite screams of pain, howls of horror bounced, echoed, reverberated then redoubled in volume and intensity until the high ceilinged vault seemed full of nothing else. The sound rattled like loose gravel inside Lahallia's sinuses as the smells of burnt stone and roasting frog meat twisted in plumes of noxious smoke, rising up to hover in dark, ominous clouds overhead, adding their own filth to that already caused by the torches and fires lit by Xedilian's grummite inhabitants.

Lahallia wasted no time, past checking the four grummites truly lay dead in mangled, warped husks of their former selves – charred to blackened statues which crumbled into chalky heaps, exuding puffs of dust she had no desire to breathe in. Raising a hand towards the ceiling Lahallia mumbled to herself, twirling a finger as if wrapping thread around it. She willed the cloud of noxious smoke to twist in upon itself, drawing like cotton to the spindle, directing it to proceed her, spreading the smell of death and the odor of destruction like harbingers of ill omen, a single Altmer following in its wake.

The eerie beauty of Xedilian showed more clearly as Lahallia continued on at a pace somewhat faster than a stroll, unconcerned about finding herself sandwiched between grummite forces. In all likelihood, they found the cloud drifting ahead of her a sign of impending disaster, which would shake them up to the point of superstitious terror, as if the End of the World had just walked into their vaults. The magelight shifting between brilliant red, dark green, evening blue, and vibrant gold did nothing to allay these fears, though it did allow Lahallia to better see the craftsmanship of the vault she was clearing out.

Faces of Sheogorath scowling or beaming down decorated the upper reaches of the walls, massive blocks dedicated to decoration, the grime of flames and smoke giving the faces the oddest shadows, jewels glittering in sunken eye sockets. Massive statuary both of Sheogorath and the crude statues crafted by grummites, presumably from fallen pieces of Xedilian's crumbling architecture.

Wrought iron caught Lahallia's attention, and as she gazed at the almost fountain-like statue within, she nearly found her quest cut short.

An angry hiss, a gulping sound, the sounds of webbed feet hitting the ground.

Lahallia lurched forward with a shout, dropping her sword with a loud clang as the invisible grummite's attack went askew, catching her backpack instead of something more vital, throwing? her forward against the magicka font.

Judgment Nexus, she belatedly realized. She had forgotten about the grummites having the Focus Crystals needed to reactivate Xedilian. Yet, no other grummite had shown any magical disposition…

Grunting, Lahallia turned, a clunk as the weapon caught in her pack remained stuck. She wrenched it free of the owner's grip. The grummite showed perfectly visible by the time Lahallia turned around. She glowered, feeling a bruise spreading where something in her backpack was knocked brutally against her back, an aching blot of pain.

Raising a hand with teeth bared, Lahallia spoke a single word, the grummite flying back against one of the wrought iron walls surrounding the Resonator. Raising her other hand, Lahallia gave the grummite one merciless look, spurred by pain and necessity before it burst into flames.

Dropping the grummite as it frizzled in the heat, Lahallia extricated the weapon from her backpack, but not before taking her backpack off. Her catalogue had stopped the poorly aimed blow, the injury aching mostly because of the impact, and the way the book had shifted, trying to jam itself under her shoulder blade. "Fetchers," Lahallia grunted, realizing how this trip had, so far, remained in near total silence on her part. Not since chatting with the Mazken had she much to say. Odd how she missed their company.

The idea of talking to herself was not one she associated with insanity, and yet…

Lahallia shook her head – apparently the gloom of the Dementia Swamps had not quite left her yet, despite the fact Xedilian seemed a more neutral place than the swamps. Caught between the press of Mania and the drag of Dementia.

The spear the grummite tried to skewer Lahallia with sported a very large, very obvious crystal, bound poorly to the knobbly staff, bones clicking from their leather thongs, feathers hanging bedraggled. Primitive indeed, Lahallia decided, pulling her knife from her boot in order to cut the crystal free of the leather thongs binding it in place. Not unlike some tribes of goblins, but as unlike as the Mazken were to Dunmer.

Parodies, perhaps?

Or maybe Sheogorath simply needed something disgusting with which to populate a swamp, and had looked to real swamps for inspiration. It sounded a little too easy of an answer, and just as plausible as the parody theory. Lahallia knew better than to ask Sheogorath obliquely, wondering if it was worth the effort and indeed the risk to find out the truth behind the matter.

Right now, however, the answered remained a very firm no. The crystal came free of the staff, humming with its own mish-mash of Manic and Demented energies.

Vision swirled at the fringes of Lahallia's vision, despite her gloves. Leaning forward on the Resonator she tried to shrug it off as jagged, disjointed Visions of grummites, of the lives of grummites, assailed her, piercing her mind like sharp knives, alien thoughts in a mer's mind.

Then just a abruptly it stopped, leaving Lahallia shaking, but still standing, still capable of defending herself. Swallowing hard, she noted the taste of blood – meaning she'd bitten herself, and a moment later she found the angry welt on the inside of her cheek. Lahallia stood on tiptoe, placing the crystal atop the resonator, following the crude sketch of what the Resonator ought to look like as found in the Manuel of Xedilian.

The Resonator gave off a low hum, Demented energy spiraling up from the ground, Manic energy drifting lazily from the ceiling like willow branches in water, both accompanied by the by now familiar smell-signatures.

Lahallia grabbed her backpack and sword, fighting off the nausea of standing too close to such powerful auras. Daedric magicka tended to produce nausea when mortals stood too near. Thankfully, there were very few such places within the Apocrypha. One quickly got used to the feel of Daedric magicka against the skin, and eventually learned to ignore it.

There was, Lahallia thought grimly as she took moment to spell her backpack together with a crude patch, something vaguely fulfilling about marching around an underground vault – the exterior of Xedilian had hinted in no way how large it actually was on the inside, not unlike the Apocrypha itself. Perhaps it was a simple resurgence of the sense of adventure so long stifled, or perhaps simply the heady euphoria of surviving an attempt on her life by luck and the presence of a stubborn book in her backpack, but suddenly wading through eggs and slime up to the ankle, or foulness up to the knee did not seem like such a terrible thing.

Smelly and slimy, yes, but certainly not enough to make her wince, shiver, and want to run away.

Backpack on, sword retrieved, jaw set, Lahallia set forward, recasting her detect life spell, her agile mind quickly breaking down possibilities and likelihoods as she continued deeper into Xedilian, no longer accompanied by her noxious cloud.

One resonator down, two to go. Both guarded by shamans or tribal elders, if her instincts spoke correctly. For surely only powerful mystics, or the equivalent of sages in a grummite tribe, or collection of tribes coexisting, would handle such powerful artifacts.

Not unlike goblins at all, Lahallia decided as she continued moving forward with surety, and magelights overhead. For the first time in…Lahallia could not remember in how long, she began to hum quietly, the words and name of the song forgotten, but the melody oddly fresh in her head, as if she had heard it within the past few days.

--SI--


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen: Baiting the Trap

--SI--

Xedilian pulsed and throbbed with the sort of magicka Lahallia had come to associate with Dementia, as if paranoia were simply raw power seeping form the walls. The source of this malevolence was the Resonator itself. While it looked like one of the crystalline spires she had used as a refuge on the journey here, it certainly shared none of the attributes. Whether the spire was something created by, or warped by Sheogorath to fit his fancies, Lahallia did not care.

All she cared about was the buzzing in her teeth, and feeling as though she were caught in a powerful storm.

The very stonework pulsed with madness now – or rather, the energy of madness - while the eyes of the effigies of Sheogorath glittered more with life and less with clever placement of precious stones, as if actually watching those people within its walls.

The pulsing energy threatened to give the no longer humming Lahallia a headache, the thrum of magicka pounding in her sinuses as she stepped onto the teleportation pad in the next room. It mercifully whisked her away from the Resonator of Judgement, though she could still feel ominous rumbled in the floor. According to the manual, this teleportation pad should have taken her somewhere near the entrance of Xedilian, permitting her to leave now her work was finished.

It did not – and oddly, Lahallia felt very little surprise when she found herself suddenly facing a Dunmer dressed head to foot in extravagant red and gold robes, easily the brightest, most colorful thing in the entire complex of Xedilian. The brilliance contradicted the ominous energy of the place.

_And where were _you_ while the grummites wanted to gnaw my bones clean_? Lahallia felt achy, tired, and in no mood for anything but a hot meal and a long soak before going to bed in a _real bed_. The idea of roughing it for another night, as she would surely have to, left her resentful and cranky. "What?" she grunted, eyeing the Dunmer in a way that told him to be brief, or be off.

"Finally, Lord Sheogorath has sent someone to assist me!" the Dunmer explained, taking no more notice of Lahallia's grim expression than of the fact her sword still remained gripped in her hand, ready for use. "But where are my manners? Ahem... must get into my professional tone... ahem..." He cleared his throat several more times, all the while Lahallia's expression darkened. As her mood clouded, the pulse of energy against her senses eased. "Welcome to Xedilian, I'm the dungeon caretaker, Kiliban Nyrandil." He bowed politely.

Now they were getting somewhere. "Lahallia Kiranni, Apocrypha Attendant on loan to Lord Sheogorath," she answered, though without bowing.

"Really?" Kiliban squinted as though shortsighted at Lahallia, finally noticed her grimace – and her sword – before backing quickly away with a placating smile. "My apologies, I've been rather rude."

"Certainly," Lahallia answered humorlessly. "Why am I here? I was under the impression I was to be sent back to the entrance, so I might report success to His Lordship." Formal speech helped keep the bite out of Lahallia's tone. After all, the logical part of her mind waved a finger sternly, when acting as an emissary in the service of Hermaeus Mora or Sheogorath, one should show incredibly good manners.

"Well," Kiliban declared, cheering up as Lahallia put her sword back in its sheath. "Xedilian is the ultimate test of mettle for the foolhardy adventurer who dares trespass into the Shivering Isles. What they don't know is that they're being drawn to their doom, courtesy of the Resonator of Judgment."

Lahallia frowned, but this time with something like curiosity. "Drawn?"

"Oh yes," Kiliban chuckled, as if at an inside joke, "the Resonator works by drawing adventurers to itself with a sort of magical 'siren's call'. Don't you feel it?"

As if on cue, the power rumbling within Xedilian began to beat against her skin more noticeably. The possibility that the energy moving through the giant trap might feel different to different people was not lost on her.

Bait for a trap, Lahallia translated, though her interest continued to remain focused. After all…she had appreciated the cleverness in breaking minds, whatever ethics might come under fire.

"Sheogorath uses the Resonator to find the 'cream of the crop' as he calls them; the best of the worst to populate the Isles." Kiliban continued chattering pleasantly. "But, ever since that wretched, smelly Gatekeeper was made, Xedilian's become redundant. It fell into disrepair and was eventually all but forgotten." The Dunmer's shoulders actually drooped.

"Yes, I found quite a few unwelcome guests." And left quite a few scorch marks on the floor. And bodies, or remains of bodies, lots of those. Lahallia did not hide her smile at the thought of the mess awaiting Kiliban as caretaker once she was gone. The thought cheered her up the rest of the way, enabling to her to forget discomfort and tiredness.

"Exactly!" Kiliban nodded exuberantly. "After only a few years passed, the Grummites began moving in. Ghastly things! I'm so glad you've got rid of them."

Not once he found out what sort of mess dead grummites left, and Lahallia never did find the spawning grounds. Likely as not, the eggs would hatch, the hatchlings _die_ and make an even bigger mess for Kiliban to clean up.

"Well, as you clearly saw, the stupid frogs mistook the focus crystals for some sort of religious symbols, and removed them from their rightful places." Kiliban grit his teeth, irritation coloring the air around him as Lahallia continued to smirk. "This rendered the Resonator inert and Xedilian completely _useless_. Luckily, you came along and placed Xedilian back into operation."

"Happy to do it," Lahallia declared, her smile widening, though clearly Kiliban could not appreciate the course of the Altmer's amusement. Which of course, made it all the more amusing to Lahallia. "But, I really do need to leave, so…" she trailed off.

"Oh yes, I do ramble…" Probably too many years alone. There was no telling how long Kiliban had hidden down here, after all. "You're right; Xedilian would normally have sent you back to the entrance when you stepped on the pad in the Resonator Chamber. Since it failed to do so, I can only surmise that adventurers are already entering the dungeon as we speak." He looked delighted.

Lahallia bit her lip. She could see where this was going, even without the gift of Sight, which put her in an awkward position indeed. She could not imagine Kiliban permitting her to leave – as Sheogorath's agent in this matter - without letting her test Xedilian's functionality, so she could provide a full report and hopefully put Xedilian and Kiliban himself back into Sheogorath's good if fickle graces.

Half of Lahallia's mind screamed, beating its fist emphatically as it decried the tests as unethical.

_But they don't have to _die... The logical side pointed out a loophole, leading to a debate of what would be worse - insanity, or death? Surely one's worse than the other. And a record of a place like this would certainly interest Lord Hermaeus Mora...

The argument raged as Lahallia followed Kiliban to an overlook of a massive room, which made up the 'front' part of Xedilian, the part accessible by the adventurous, unwary, or suicidal.

Kiliban waved a hand, so a chair drifted in from another room, settling itself near the grate separating the overlook from the room below. He dusted it off once the article landed.

Lahallia knew what to look for – two switches, one which would kill an adventurer, the other which would drive him mad. Her stomach writhed in distaste for the choices she was about to make, her mind buzzed with the dark interest in seeing Xedilian in action, while something else perked up at the thought of holding that sort of power, of life and death, sanity and madness in her hands.

"Do sit down," Kiliban prompted.

Lahallia automatically sat, conjured her book and quill, and began to scribble as the adventurers, an unusually massive Orc, a skinny Dunmer and a human, swaggered into the vault like Sanguine's Chosen into a brothel. "How long before I must make a choice?" Lahallia asked softly, so her voice would not carry. It would not do, after all, for the adventurers to know they were under observation.

"There's no need to keep your voice down," Kiliban announced offhandedly. "Hey! You lot!" he bellowed, startling Lahallia, who blotted ink on her page, swearing softly as she did so. "You're going to die!" he called in a singsong tone. "Or go mad! There's no hope of getting out! None!"

The adventurers did not so much as blink, their voices echoing somewhat unintelligibly in the vault as they prowled around.

"I get the idea," Lahallia snarled grimly, clearing her page before finishing the entry, looking from one switch to the other. "What do the switches do?" She knew the Manual mentioned it, but could not help thinking it would take less time for Kiliban to simply _tell_ her – if he could constrain his flow of thought to one single directive.

A big if, she decided, ready to take in the observations she made as soon as she picked the path of fate for one of those poor souls.

"This is the Chamber of the Gnarl," Kiliban declared from behind Lahallia's shoulder, so as not to interfere with her view of the proceedings. "At the touch of a button, you can cause a large group of tiny Gnarls to appear and attack the adventurers." He motioned to the pushbutton with the luminous green-blue etched face. "Or, if you're feeling merciful, we can have the group terrorized by a seemingly lowly Gnarl that instantly grows to twice their size!" He motioned to the other button, luminous orange with a toothy smile in the carving.

"And what stops them from killing the oversized gnarl?" Lahallia asked dryly, wondering if it would not be better just putting the adventurers out of their misery. She had conjured a telekinesis spell to push the button to kill one of them when she realized that for a very sane lady, she seemed to be leaning quite a bit towards the Demented line of thinking.

Thinking back, it seemed to her as though that part of the Isles had somehow insinuated itself underneath her skin.

No, she was still sane. Therefore she would defy expectation. That and Hermaeus Mora would probably appreciate an article detailing the less final path of insanity. Certainly, he probably knew what dead bodies looked like, and what it took to make a body dead.

Kill a body, Lahallia corrected herself, surprised at the nonsense seeping into her head more and more often these days.

Kiliban chuckled, pleased at how quickly Lahallia caught on. "Well, the hallucinogenic spore gas we release into the chamber does help. It lulls the victims into believing the creature means to kill them," he added with a grin.

Lahallia directed her spell towards the orange button, quill raised, ready to record.

She could see the spore gas seeping in, but apparently the adventurers could not. Somewhat nauseated, but sickly fascinated, Lahallia scribbled in her catalogue, eyes riveted to the scene, as the massive gnarl waved its arms perplexedly, as if as surprised as the adventurers at finding itself so massively magnified. The Imperial cracked, his screams echoing even after the perceived threat passed.

The gnarl eventually returned to its proper size, then scrambled away, as eager to be gone as the adventurers – the remaining two of whom abandoned their cracked companion and fled further into the maze.

"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!" Kiliban cried, clapping his hands approvingly. "Now, if you'll just step this way, I'll bring the chair." Kiliban led Lahallia towards the next room, the chair bobbing along behind them, before he settled it near the grate on the observation deck.

"May I offer you a drink?" he asked solicitously as Lahallia settled herself, waiting for the two adventurers to catch up. Apparently she and Kiliban had a much shorter distance to walk than they. Also apparent were Kiliban's hopes that a good impression on Lahallia might mean a good report to Lord Sheogorath.

"Please," Lahallia declared distractedly, still scribbling notes, still feeling ill at ease with what she was doing.

Kiliban produced from who knew where a golden goblet, which he held until Lahallia reached for it.

Lahallia nearly spat the liquor out, unprepared for the light sweetness of it. Decidedly a Mania beverage. Once she expected the sweetness, however, it was not as bad as that first sip – though she did not drink much of it, wanting her senses sharp so as to record events most accurately. Kiliban took the goblet again as Lahallia reached to set it on the floor.

This chamber sported a cage full of treasure. Lahallia thought she knew what this was about, remembering an excerpt from the Manual. Death by fireball, or madness by hundreds of keys, apparently to the lock between the adventurers and the treasure. And, Lahallia knew as the Dunmer shrieked excitedly at the sight of the gold out of reach in its cage, not a single key actually fit in the lock.

This time she did not bother consulting Kiliban but used telekinesis to press the orange button, almost like a child, furtively eager to see the results of her twisted decision. After all, that ethical part of her argued, better they live, for madness was not a curse here in the Isles.

Keys showered down upon the Dunmer, on his knees, trying to reach through the bars with one arm to grasp at the treasure.

Black lines of script appeared, the handwriting less steady and legible than previous entries as Lahallia watched the Dunmer's grip on sanity stretch, stretch, stretch…

To her own disappointment, she did not get to see the Dunmer's mind actually snap, for his companion hurried along without him, prompting Kiliban to usher her to the last trap, ready for the last adventurer. The Orc. Lahallia expected him to crack among the first. Adding a footnote to the Orc's entry about the adventurers, she penned 'unusual mental resilience'.

"And this chamber?" Lahallia asked, surprised by the breathless quality of her own voice, and the fact her unease had dissipated to merely a squirm.

Kiliban chuckled, proffering Lahallia another drink. This time, she expected something from Dementia, based on the dark silver and green glass of the goblet. She much preferred the darker, richer sweetness of the liquid to the overpowering stuff in the last goblet. "The Chamber of Anathema. Its contents are designed to make sure it is the final encounter, for one guest, or for many." He sounded excited, but at the same time, it was a hushed excitement as if the chamber beyond frightened him, as much as it intrigued. "The adventurers will be subject to horrors beyond their imagination...visions of repugnance, death, and malevolence reside in this room. If you wish to bring ruin to your victims, you may choose to animate some of the corpses and watch as they satiate their hunger."

Lahallia grimaced: how crude.

"Or," Kiliban's voice hovered nearer Lahallia's ear. "Or, we can create the illusion of the adventurer dying and his spirit rising from his corpse. Good fun to be had for all!"

How creative!

"Then, just as suddenly as we kill him, we revive the adventurer. There are few minds that can stand this type of torture," Kiliban chuckled.

Lahallia did not wait for Kiliban to finish his last sentence, leaning forward in her chair, her quill almost forgotten in her hand, the article remaining the leanest most bare-bones of the three as she watched insanity pull, tauten, then snap with hardly a flinch. "Fascinating," she breathed, once the Orc had dissolved into a quivering, shaking mass on the floor. "Absolutely fascinating…" Lahallia ignored Kiliban as he excused himself. She did not hear, or care what that business actually was, simply sat watching the Orc sit on the floor, jabbering to himself.

--SI--

Thanks to Iskeirka for catching an error in narration. ^_^


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen: Order and Madness

--SI--

Taking another sip of the Dementia wine, Lahallia watched the Orc in the Chamber of Anathema, feeling quite unlike herself, as if someone else's mind were wearing her skin. Adding a few more notes to her catalogue, Lahallia dismissed the pen and the book, the whole while noting how clear her mind still felt. She expected Dementia liquor to be much stronger…though thinking a little harder, she supposed the paranoid and demented might not want their senses too dulled by drink, where as the residents of Mania might not care.

Getting to her feet when she heard the sounds of Kiliban's shoes shuffling on the floor, the Dunmer reappeared a moment later with his arms full of junk. "Ah, you're very lucky!" he cried, setting his armload of things in Lahallia's vacated chair.

"How so?' Lahallia asked, frowning at the pile of odds and ends.

"What? I didn't mention it before?"

Lahallia scowled in classic Altmer fashion.

"Oh, I beg your pardon. It's traditional, any of their possessions you wish to keep are yours for the taking. Particularly well earned in this case! Let's see…we've got this," he produced an amulet on a chain, and this…" a ring several sizes too big for Lahallia, "oh, and the _sword_. The prize of the lot!"

Lahallia took the sword when Kiliban thrust it at her, handle first. The heavy, unwieldy blade made her feel off balance, but she could feel something in the blade as she touched the jewel, admired the golden pattern of snake scales on the hilt, if not the unwieldy impression of a toothy blade. Not the weapon of an Altmer, Lahallia thought acidly, or of an Attendant. Still, it was pretty, and powerful. She could almost feel something slumbering in the sword's core, an untouchable force… "Akaviri."

"That's right," Kiliban declared, before rambling about dusk and dawn changing the effects of the blade. "An Akaviri drinking blade, if you really want…"

All Lahallia wanted to know if the blade was unique – and it certainly seemed to be. It, and the rest of the junk Kiliban kept insisting she take, joined the rest of her proper gear in her backpack. As far as the sword, Lahallia supposed it would make a fine present once she got back to the Apocrypha, in addition to her catalogue. A rare object like this would certainly please any Daedric Prince. The only question was if Sheogorath would let her keep it.

Clunk.

Lahallia almost did not hear it, though Kiliban certainly hadn't. "What was that…?" Lahallia began, looking around as Kiliban, unaware of anything unsettling, began to lead her towards the exit.

It was nearly the last mistake of Kiliban's life.

Lahallia saw it before the Dunmer did: a large shard of silvery-grey crystalline stuff erupting almost silently from the floor, the silence of no past, no future acting upon it almost a palpable force in the vault, where everything held tones of madness. Spires of nothing amidst the vibrancy of this vault beneath the Isles.

Grabbing the mer's robes, Lahallia pulled hard, casting him back and out of the way, using the momentum of Kiliban falling backwards to throw herself to safety as well. Awkwardly, Lahallia landed on the ground, her hip screeching in pain as she struggled to draw her sword, seeking to defend herself against the moving crystalline creatures suddenly swarming up the stairs leading to the platform upon which she and the suddenly shrieking Kiliban stood. Her arm ached up to the shoulder as she parried and blocked, giving ground, sometimes gaining it back, but stuck in a stalemate.

The blade of the Apocrypha left no marks upon the crystalline armor, nor could Lahallia's strongest, best thrust pierce the armor, deceptively frail if it could withstand the blows the Altmer peppered upon it without so much as a scratch to evidence the attacks. Lahallia knew her position was bad, despite the fact she kept fighting, her physical strength waning with the ferocity she exerted against the unstoppable knights.

Not even the Apocrypha's Trap affected the knight-shaped thing closest to her, the spell bouncing off its crystalline plate. Three onto one, Lahallia kept the fight moving, terrified to find herself caught between the three knights, until finally, two of them managed to corral her.

Throwing herself flat, she rolled, the sword of the first plunging into the second. When the weapon pulled free, the injured knight collapsed in a heap of dust and broken crystal shards, leaving two for Lahallia to deal with. Lahallia's relief at the appearance of the knights not possessing much intelligence – particularly if they could make such a tantamount error as skewering their own comrade, for whom they seemed to care very little – remained short-lived. Her magicka kept bouncing off the crystal plate, off crystal helmets. Whatever crystal made up their swords, however, it proved much stronger than any crystal Lahallia ever encountered.

Suddenly with a scream, Kiliban charged back into the room, carrying a long, rough looking dagger. With mad foolishness he threw himself at one of the knights, this short dagger skipping along the crystal armor, shedding greenish sparks and leaving a deep, ugly looking rent, as if the knife's surface had scraped off as it drew across the crystal. The crystal seemed to bubble as if melted for the moment Lahallia had a clear view of it.

"Madness ore!" Kiliban shouted as she danced back from the flailing knight, to Lahallia still trying to fend the other off. "It hurts them!"

"Then finish him off!" Lahallia shouted, struggling in a contest of strength with the knight, his sword caught by hers, every muscle in her body screaming as she fought to stop the inexorable push of the crystalline blade. She could imagine her blade twisting and warping under the pressure applied against it, terrified at any moment she would find herself in whatever lay beyond the Dark Cliffs.

Miserable as the Sight made her most of the time, Lahallia had never wished to escape the Sight by running into death.

A loud crash indicated the second knight had fallen, Kiliban's shouts echoing incoherently, but magnified in the silent, now otherwise empty vaults of Xedilian.

Lahallia struggled a moment longer before the knight crumbled, the unexpected crash of weight burying her in a mass of shattered, fractured crystal and dully shining dust. "Sorry about that," Kiliban declared as he rose, also coated in glimmering dust. He had apparently jammed his short knife into some weak spot in the knight's armor.

"What the hell are those…those…those _things_?!" Lahallia roared, surging to her feet, shedding dust and crystal particles as Kiliban forced his dagger into her hand. It burned beneath her glove, as malevolent and unpredictable as the crystal was lifeless and non-Vision triggering.

"Have you not heard the legends?" Kiliban asked grimly, looking at the ruined knights, fishing through the remains and producing a large chunk of darker gray crystal. "Look closely, Lahallia of the Apocrypha…" Kiliban sounded so worried, Lahallia forgot for moment her racing heart and terror at coming up against a foe she could not effectively fight. "Those _things_ as you aptly call them aren't beings at all. They are the soulless abominations, known as the Knights of Order. See? The heart of their power. Take it," he produced a green cloth by magicka, wrapping the heart in it before passing it to Lahallia. "The madness ore, or some say the amber weapons of Mania, are far more effective than any other weapon. Let me see your sword…"

Lahallia handed it over, thrusting the knife awkwardly into her belt.

"Yes, a weapon of the Apocrypha would not do much damage to a Knight of Order. The Apocrypha has too much order in and of itself to hurt something similar." Kiliban shook his head, handing the weapon back.

"And the sword I got here?" Lahallia panted, feeling pain beginning to assert itself as fear and the urge to run, to flee, began to take over. "Can it hurt them?"

"I can't say, but is it worth the risk of the answer being 'no?' Best you go to Crucible, speak to Cutter at Cutter's Weapons. She'll make you a sword that'll punch through these things like a stick through slugs. Or you can talk to Dumag Gro-bonk in Bliss. I can vouch that if you're not sure of the sword, Cutter'll test it for you. Sweet girl."

Lahallia did not question his odd statement, but took to heart the hint of needing a new, better sword before she ran into anymore of these Knights of Order.

"You must proceed to Sheogorath at once and tell him the Knights have returned!" Kiliban pulled Lahallia to her feet and hurried her to the door. "Take the most direct route you can, if you run into any of the Mazken patrols, tell them what you've seen, they'll see you get safely back to New Sheoth, but they'll run your every step of the way. They move fast at need, but they also have proper weapons against these Knights. With news such as yours, they will die before they let the Knights stop you from delivering the message. Quickly now...go!"

Lahallia nodded sharply as she stepped out into the darkness of the Dementia Swamps, rendering herself as close to invisible as she could. She trusted in the darkness to hide her rippling shape, the only clue to her presence. Madness dagger clenched in her hand, Lahallia moved as fast as she could, sparing a thought only to make sure she did not raise as much noise as a bear charging through undergrowth.

--SI--

Kiliban had not exaggerated when mentioning how the Mazken would travel fast, if Lahallia could place herself under their protection. She ran, literally, into a patrol travelling up Pinnacle Road from Pinnacle Rock, one of the patrols of marshals charged with keeping the roads safe and clear.

Upon hearing Lahallia's panted explanation of Knights of Order, of the encounter with them at Xedilian, the Mazken took off, shepherding Lahallia with them at a trot just short of a run. Lahallia could not help noticing that not all the crystalline spires were spewing forth Knights of Order as she feared they would, but deep down, she felt uncomfortably certain this tenure of docility would not last.

Order was order, methodical. It moved according to set rules or plans – which meant that spires would activate in some sort of prearranged order, as they gathered the strength to affect the world through the Realm of Madness surrounding them. Order meant Jyggalag. And that, Lahallia knew, should not be possible. Jyggalag, the only Daedric Prince ever to be destroyed, everyone knew that – everyone who knew he existed, or had existed at one point.

Had Lahallia paid attention, she would have noticed the trip from Xedilian to New Sheoth took less time than the trip the other way, supporting her theory that space here was as indefinite and irregular as time.

She could not put her mind to work on something past keeping her feet moving, forcing her tired body to charge forward between the two Mazken, all the way up Pinnacle Road, via the Low Road, into New Sheoth.

This time, when trotting up the stairs leading from the lower end of other palace grounds to the palace itself, Lahallia could feel the crystalline spires – previously ignored in favor of business at hand – exerting their force against the land around them, but without success. That made sense, she thought, staggering up the stairs, only to have an arm gripped by one of the Mazken, who half helped half dragged her along. It made sense in that this would certainly be the last place Order could influence, here, in the Seat of Madness. But it was already trying.

"In you go." The Mazken shunted Lahallia to the door after a brief conversation with the Mazken door wardens, both of whom looked slightly pale in the suddenly bright light of day.  
Pushing her sweaty hair way from her face in an attempt to make herself look less bedraggled – an effort she might as well not have made – Lahallia strode forward to find Sheogorath grinning, watching her like a delighted child.

"Well! Look who's back!" Sheogorath beamed, his gold eyes glittering.

"I was attacked," Lahallia panted, gazing up at the Daedric Prince, "by crystalline knights. Knights of Order, so they were called." Haskill looked mildly worried, but it vanished a moment later to his usual bored disdain.

Sheogorath did not seem surprised in the slightest, which, in Lahallia's current state of mind, made her want to say something snide or sharp. However a love of her ability to speak and in the interests of keeping her entrails in their rightful place, she literally bit her tongue, keeping the tip clamped between her teeth so as not to say something rash.

"So soon? Not a surprise, I suppose. We'll get to that later. No need to burden your little brain with it now." He waved cheerfully. "And Xedilian? Since you're standing here, I assume you've succeeded. Or you're terribly confused. Or _seriously_ lacking in good judgment." He ended on a scowl, magicka humming threatening in the air.

Lahallia did not jump, or even flinch his time. "It's operational. Operating perfectly, if I may say," Lahallia declared in an effort of self discipline.

"Wonderful! Time for a celebration...cheese for everyone!" Sheogorath jumped up from his seat. He chose to ignore Lahallia's less than enthusiastic response, the slumped shoulders, the low groan of exhaustion and frustration.

What had she done in life to deserve a punishment like this? Surely she was not so bad a person she deserved this sort of hellish headache that serving Sheogorath was turning into.

Sheogorath frowned at Lahallia's continued slouching, clicking his tongue to change her gray robes – the ones he had not wanted to see – to the most revolting plaid in the history of visible ensembles. Lahallia did not give any indications she noticed the change to her wardrobe. "Wait, scratch that. Cheese for no one. That can be just as much of a celebration, if you don't like cheese. True?"

"As you say, my lord," Lahallia answered tiredly, her limbs and eyelids beginning to feel leaden, the run catching up with her.

"You've run a maze like a good little rat, but no cheese for you yet. Well, maybe a little," Sheogorath allowed, annoyed at the lack of enthusiasm, but deciding it was not perhaps, ill fitting. Lahallia had not noticed, but she had not tried to walk on both the red and the green carpet at the same time. She simply stepped onto the green side upon entering, and stayed upon it. Telling, very telling. "I'll grant you a new spell - the ability to summon Haskill, my Chamberlain, to aid you in your travels. He knows a lot. More than he knows."

Haskill somehow had moved while Lahallia eyed the carpet, but nevertheless, as she puzzled over the spell, she found it in her memory, just as if she had learned it the so-called proper way. A smile touched her features. Surely Haskill would not appreciate summons from a mere mortal. The smile widened. Well, maybe it was time to share the misery…

"In fact, give it a try. Summon our friend to you now. I'll wait."

Encouragement and threat proved lost on Lahallia, who raised a hand, held the spell in mind, then snapped her fingers. Haskill appeared with a heavy sigh, indicating his displeasure at this indignity. "I suppose you will need my knowledge before long. Hopefully before the grummites get you."

"Not to worry," Lahallia declared, her voice raspy with tiredness. "They've tried. They'll learn."

Sheogorath laughed loudly, as he dismissed Haskill. "Don't you know what the definition for insanity _is_?" he demanded.

Lahallia stopped, sensing a trick question.

"Well, while you're thinking...isn't it a hoot?"

Lahallia blinked, quickly deciding Sheogorath meant summoning Haskill. If only he'd stay on topic for more than a few seconds....then again, if he did, he might not be the Prince of Madness. "I love it, myself. Best part of being a Daedric Prince, really. Go ahead, try it again. He loves it!"

Lahallia obeyed, then again when Sheogorath insisted.

He settled back in his chair, looking cheerful as ever - and making Lahallia want to _leave_ and come back when he might, hopefully, find himself able to focus a little more. "Good, good! I'm glad you've got the hang of that. You'll need all the help you can get if you're going to defeat Jyggalag and stop the Greymarch."

Lahallia looked up, surprised by the sudden apparent lucidity.

"Oh, don't expect to summon dear Haskill anywhere but in the Realm." Sheogorath waved a warning finger at Lahallia. "He dislikes leaving my presence. I get that sometimes."

"Of course, my lord," Lahallia answered politely. Then seeking to take advantage of the lucidity, she ventured to speak up. "My lord mentioned Jyggalag…"

"The Daedric Prince of Order." Sheogorath waved a had dismissively, then stopped, blinking. "Or biscuits...no. Order. And not in a good way. Bleak. Colorless. Dead. Boring, boring, boring." Sheogorath pulled a face, as if someone were trying to force-feed him over-steamed spinach. "And not a fan of my work, I can tell you. Hates it. Hates me. A bit single minded, if you take my meaning." He tapped his temple, shaking his head as if the idea of someone hating his work was ludicrous to a level not even _he _achieved.

Which almost made Lahallia laugh – almost.

"You've seen his Knights. Not the warm and cuddly sort. Not a bit of original thought in their lifeless husks. So, you're going to help me stop him." Sheogorath concluded, his tone indicating an impending 'or else' clause.

Lahallia did not need that sort of threat – or motivation, as Sheogorath might well have called it. "And the Greymarch?"

"An event. A movement. An apocalypse of sorts. Happens every era, at the end of every era. Which is to say, _now_. The Greymarch comes, and Jyggalag walks. Or runs. Never skips, sidles, or struts. Mostly, he just destroys everything around him." Sheogorath slumped in his chair, grimacing.

"And how…" Lahallia knew she'd gone too far.

Sheogorath's eyes flashed as he surged to his feet, scowling. For a moment the sense of seeing a puppet for a much larger being nearly overwhelmed Lahallia. "Again with the niggling little details! Hold your tongue, _or I will_," Sheogorath growled, though the sense of the large being and the puppet vanished as Lahallia took two involuntary steps back. "We'll get to that, all in due time. For now, you've got other work to do."

"What would you ask of…" Lahallia knew, in her tiredness and uncertainly, she had again said the wrong thing. Wondering when or if she would ever learn, she stepped back again as Sheogorath's expression blackened.

"Ask? _ASK_? _I don't ask_." He shouted, pounding a fist on the arm of his throne. "I _tell_. This is _my_ realm, remember? _My_ creation. _My_ place. _My_ rules!" Sheogorath's lip curled. "Look at you," he cried with some distaste. "No _concept_ of what you've stumbled into. No sense of place. You don't even really know where you _are_, do you?"

Lahallia did not answer, pursing her lips against another wrongly chosen statement.

"I suppose few really do, but that's beside the point. We're going to give you a taste of where you have found yourself. You're going to _learn_." Again, the threat to drive the point home.

Lahallia bowed silently, her eyes fixed on the dark figures on the green carpet, which seemed to dance and jitter the longer she looked at them. Shivering.

"Two halves, two rulers, two places. Meet and greet. Do what they will, so you know what they're about." Sheogorath declared, more neutrally. The Duke of Mania and the Duchess of Dementia. Seek them out, and let them show you what New Sheoth is. You might be surprised. Once you understand what My Realm is, you might understand why it's important to keep it intact. And maybe you'll make some friends along the way. That's always nice!"

"Yes, Sire," Lahallia answered softly, withdrawing at the first available opportunity.

--SI--


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen: The Court of Mania

--SI--

The streets of Bliss contrasted so sharply with Lahallia's memory of Crucible she found it hard to believe they belonged to the same city. While Crucible reeked of despair and paranoia, its streets holding pools of foulness and far too many mushrooms, Bliss seemed cleaner, more energetic and robust.

Stained glass windows, or windows comprised of several panes forming mosaics, graced the whitish buildings, all of which seemed to draw themselves up, as if posing for onlookers. People bustled, chattering, always chattering, to each other, to themselves, to no one in particular, all under the watchful gaze of the Aureals in charge of keeping the city under some form of regulation.

Upon leaving Sheogorath's courtroom, Lahallia immediately presented herself to the Court of Mania. Unfortunately, Duke Thadon was 'indisposed' according to his functionary Wide-Eye. The Argonian had, however, already received orders for when Lahallia made her inevitable appearance, and passed along that Lahallia was expected to attend the formal supper that evening – and to dress accordingly.

Lahallia agreed with Wide-Eye. She looked and felt like some sort of vagabond ragamuffin, barely Altmer, having more in common with filthy laundry than a living creature. So, in the hopes of learning whatever it was Sheogorath wanted her to learn – and doing so quickly so as to avoid annoying him any further - Lahallia chose to stay in Bliss, taking out a room at the Choosy Beggar.

Even the dust motes seemed to buzz with barely contained manic energy. Lahallia thought. It felt so good to be clean – especially as ti took two refills of the tub before the water stopped turning noticeably dingy. Now, she had simply pinned up her hair and chose to relax in the hot water, occasionally shifting to a more comfortable position as scented steam coiled up, wreathing around her head. The rooms might not be the grandest, but certainly the amenities provided were beyond compare. A free potion for the bathwater without extra charge was surely the best way to attract custom Lahallia ever heard of.

Of course, she had had to scrub out the tin tub herself before using it, careful to make sure it would not trigger any Visions while she soaked. She had no desire to drown, and bathtubs – like bedding – tended to retain more triggers than other things. She suspected it had to do with how much contact with a person the artifact had, bedding and bathtubs both having quite a bit.

But Vision remained at bay as sunlight streamed through the curtains, turning the room fiery scarlet.

From the room below rose the sounds of a party, of music and cheers as those gathered joined in singing.

Wadded in a corner, where they could not offend her eyes, lay her terrible plaid clothes. A fresh change rested on the bed, the wrinkles shaken out, turned a demure shade of garnet red. She still had not managed to remove the spell turning her working clothes plaid, and wondered vaguely if she even could. Sheogorath's admonition of not wanting to see the gray again echoed in her ears.

Lahallia shifted again, still not ready to give up her warm scented sanctuary, she could not wear those clothes to the dinner party tonight. The guards would never allow her past the front door. It did not bother her. She intend to cast an illusion of fashionable clothes. No one would be able to tell the clothes they saw her in were not the ones she actually wore.

Which saved on time and gold. Gold she would need, as she planned to purchase a sword before venturing out of the city again, as she was bound to have to do. A sword, specifically, which could damage the Knights of Order.

The fact that Azura knew a mortal champion was needed, coupled with Sheogorath's lack of surprise about the impending invasion of his realm did not give Lahallia much hope. If those two knew, the likelihood was Hermaeus Mora knew as well, which meant whatever was going on was some Daedric game in which mortals were the unknowing or unwilling pawns, shuffled about this way and that – or killed as so-called necessity dictated – while the Daedra watched and laughed about it over snacks and drinks.

So much for keeping out of Daedric games.

Rising from the tub, Lahallia seized hold of the fat, fluffy towel, scrubbing at her hair once she removed the pins holding it up, as if she could scrub the annoyance out along with the water. But no. Even once dry and dressed she could not think anything particularly charitable to Azura or Sheogorath. Even a few not so pleasant thoughts slipped into her mind, directed at Hermaeus Mora.

It boded ill, if this was something the Mazken and Aureals, even if they worked together, could not stop.

Stepping in front of the mirror, Lahallia looked at her robes, the long habit-like ones she usually wore while in the Apocrypha. No, she scowled, no, the first order of business was a proper sword, just in case anything untoward happened. Despite her mild trepidation about seeing a weapon-smith who chose to go by the name of 'Cutter',

Lahallia decided to take Kiliban's suggestion. If the madness ore weapon turned out too unwieldy, or ill-fitted to her, she could always come back to Bliss.

Lahallia ended up visiting the Missing Pauldron first, as it lay across the plaza from the Choosy Beggar.

Perhaps it was the sheer enthusiasm the Orc proprietor displayed, or perhaps the excessive and lavish compliments he paid her that did it. Perhaps it was the fact he seemed stuck in the middle of an identity crisis. Whatever it was, it put her ill at ease. Lahallia did not stay long, past examining a longsword, while Dumag exclaimed enthusiastically, 'Sometimes, a woman has got to make her point using the tip of her sword, right? You'd better believe it!'. She promised she would consider the matter...but felt perhaps shew as in the wrong place.

A hasty retreat later, and the necessity of holding her habit skirts up about her ankles to keep them clear of the pooling filth on the streets of Crucible, found Lahallia searching out Cutter. Hopefully the smith would prove a little more approachable.

Cutter looked up as Lahallia entered the shop, putting her hammer down on the anvil. Her eyes had dark rings beneath them, and her mouth looked a little too red in the pale pasty expanse of her face. If she were not obviously troubled – deeply troubled, Lahallia could feel triggers for Vision crawling around the room like centipedes – she might have warranted the description pretty. "Something smooth and sharp? Leave your foes sticky with blood," Cutter asked in a low voice, watching Lahallia like a snake eyes a rat.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. I'm in the market for a sword – something like this one, if you've got it," she drew her Apocrypha blade then handed it to Cutter for inspection.

Unlike the Orcish smith, Cutter did not make Lahallia feel quite so uncomfortable, though admittedly, Lahallia felt uncomfortable enough. Manic enthusiasm on the one hand, demented quietness on the other. What else should she have expected? Still, it was better to shop here where Lahallia did not have to worry about being snatched up and hugged by the Orc. He seemed _that_ exuberant.

Cutter examined the Apocrypha's blade closely, pinging her fingers off it, testing the weight then – to Lahallia's shock and disgust - testing the sharp of it on an arm already bearing many crosswise marks. Cutter inhaled slightly, dark eyes focussed on the red gash against her pale arm, watching the blood well up from the newest wound before half-healing it with a spell.

"This is a very fine blade. It bites deep," Cutter announced, still gazing at the blade.

"But not into the hides of the foes I intend to face." Kiliban's warnings of Cutter testing a blade to prove its worth came back to Lahallia, a shiver on their heels. It did not make sense to her, the mutilation of one's own body, and yet, Cutter seemed to do just that.

Cutter smiled. "Then it's good you've come to me. Don't bother with that other smith," she added nastily, "or I'll cut your throat." She did not see the austere frown Lahallia gave her, already walking back to the racks of weapons on display.

The dingy quietness of the shop pressed against Lahallia's ears, the smell of metal possibly disguising the smell of blood. "Here, try this." Cutter brought over a sword of narrower width but similar length to the Apocrypha's blade, now tucked under one arm.

Lahallia drew the sword as Cutter held the scabbard, then gave it a few experimental swings. The metal buzzed under her hand, the same as the dagger did. Despite the slenderness of the blade, it weighed about the same as the Apocrypha blade, it handled better, too, marginally better balanced. "This is impressive work," she announced, gauging Cutter's reaction.

The smith brightened marginally. "It is, and the edges are quite keen…"

Lahallia quickly made a show of thumbing the edge through her glove. "Yes, I can see it is," she declared, before Cutter could offer to prove it.

--SI--

Lahallia wondered when exactly she ought to make her appearance at the Court of Mania for this dining event. In the end she need not have worried, for she received a knock on the door, finding an Aureal on the other side, looking harassed and more than a little bad tempered.

"Are you Lahallia, Lord Sheogorath's agent?" she inquired, her heavy eyebrows knitting together above her slanting eyes.

"I am," Lahallia answered uncomfortably, resisting the urge to hide her hands in her habit sleeves, for the fashionable gown she appeared to wear would not permit such an action.

"I am to escort you up to the Court of Mania. You are to attend supper this evening."

"Am I late?" Lahallia asked uncomfortably as she trotted after the Aureal.

The Aureal shrugged. "Not yet, but if you do not get a move on, you will be. This is your first time in the Court of Mania, correct?"

"For more than a few minutes, yes," Lahallia allowed.

The Aureal's expression softened a little. "Do no put up with any more of Thadon's guff than you have to. It only encourages him."

Lahallia gaped at the Aureal. "I thought…"

"I know what you probably thought," the Aureal declared, "that we serve Mania, and never speak ill of our leadership. Our leadership is Lord Sheogorath, we are loyal to _him_. If he wishes us to babysit the Bosmer, so we do so."

"Ah, I see," Lahallia responded. "I'm sorry the task is so onerous."

The Aureal snorted. "Onerous is not the word for Thadon. I do not think there is a word sufficient. Just remember, he will not remember anything after the second course. So, if you are going to call him a cad and slap him silly, wait. Lord Sheogorath has plans for you. Anything Thadon wants comes second."

Lahallia grinned, but was not sure how much the Aureal was joking.

The Aureal continued,as though bored. "I am to remain on hand, to see you safely home once the party concludes."

"Why?"

The Aureal shook her head. "Thadon is fond of food and drink. He likes to share the joy," the Aureal answered. After a few moments, in which they both trotted up flights of stairs, the Aureal spoke again, sounding less haughty. "Is it true you killed the Gatekeeper?"

"With help," Lahallia answered.

"And reactivated Xedilian?"

"Yes." Lahallia nodded.

The Aureal looked over her shoulder, then gave the Altmer an assessing look. "Nice to see an outsider who doesn't need babysitting." The Aureal paused outside the door. "Remember, second course before you can leave, if you must leave early. You're on Thadon's right, guest of honor."

"Thank you." Lahallia stepped into the dining hall, presented herself before the Duke – trying all the while not to stare at the bizarre hat he wore – bowed, then sat down when bidden. Thadon jabbered, reminding Lahallia why she disliked Bosmer on the whole. No wonder the Aureals all looked so grumpy, standing guard in their shining golden armor.

Thadon really was an idiot.

"But, I've been told I'm to come up with a task for you!" Thadon rattled on, his voice making Lahallia grit her teeth.

Below the table, one fist clenched her napkin, the fibers digging into her skin. Second course...she only had to stay that long. Any longer and she might do something regrettable. "That is what Lord Sheogorath indicated," Lahallia answered carefully.

Thadon did not show any signs of feeling put off by her stiffly formal tones. "That's excellent! Excellent!" Lahallia moved her hand when Thadon reached to grab it. Vision began to press threatening at the base of her skull, and she did not want it to happen _here_. She did not like the way Thadon kept looking at her, as if he were imagining what she'd look like with no clothes on.

Wide-Eye, sitting on Thadon's other side, noticed Thadon's interest as well, and was grimacing Argonian fashion into her goblet, pointedly not looking at Lahallia.

If Wide-Eye wanted Thadon – and didn't want to share - she could certainly have him. Lahallia knew she ought to have expected _some _level of debauchery from the Duke of Mania. Excess and over-enthusiasm. Like too-sweet desserts, it made Lahallia's back teeth ache.

"You couldn't imagine how long I've been waiting for you. So little to do, and so much time," Thadon crooned cheerfully as the first course was brought in, still steaming. "Hmm, could you, in fact, imagine just how long I've been waiting? I don't think you could, but I might be wrong. I might also not care. Which is it?" Thadon, knife and fork poised, waited for Lahallia's answer.

Lahallia reached forward, taking her gold and crystal goblet in hand, noting the amber liquid inside was the same stuff, or similar, to the liquor Kiliban served in Xedilian. She knew the answer to this sort of question. "You've been waiting forever."

"Yes, yes..." Thadon repeated quickly, his expression radiant with amusement, "that just might be true. Or I've not been waiting at all. Forever and nothing are almost the same thing, wouldn't you say?"

"Within the confines of the mind, what can man or mer say, Your Grace?" Lahallia asked.

The table, at a proper dinner party, might have broken out in quiet applause at such graceful wit, but as Wide-Eye and Lahallia were the only guests, no such appreciation seemed forthcoming.

The Aureals, however, shifted a bit, not unlike restless hawks. How boring these parties must be for them. Lahallia sipped her wine, finding it far too sweet to fit her tastes.

"How do you tell one from another if you're smack in the middle?" Thadon asked, before holding up a hand to forestall any possible answer. "Don't answer that, I already know the answer of course. It came to me during a meal."

Wide-Eye chuckled appreciatively, while Lahallia began to cut up her food, more for something to do than because she felt hungry.

"Not a very good meal, though. Too much pie. Pie is a tricky thing, wouldn't you say? Don't answer that either." Thadon waved a hand dismissively.

Lahallia felt as though she were flashing back to her meeting with Sheogorath, in which he'd cited cheese in a similar fashion. The first bit of the unidentifiable food tasted…odd. Lahallia could not explain the oddity, only that something was off, and she did not know what that something might be.

"Now that forever is over and you're here, you need to go away. Yes, away. There are places you should be, far away from here."

Thank goodness. Another bite of the strange tasting dish left Lahallia's mouth buzzing. The food certainly did not taste odd because it _lacked_ something. It tasted odd because there was something _extra_ in it, though she could not for the life of her identify it.

"The Chalice of Reversal is waiting for you. When I say you, I mean me, but it's no difference to the Chalice. One ends up being the other." Thadon waved his fork.

Lahallia's fork fell from her hand. The ringing of it hitting the plate echoed in the suddenly cavernous interior of her mind. Her vision fuzzed, Vision acting in an odder way than ever. It slipped silkily around her mind, as if trying to seduce her into Seeing, rather than drowning her in Sight, as usually happened. Lahallia managed to pick up her fork, struggling not to show anything was wrong.

"What am I looking for?" Lahallia asked, wondering where her mental acuteness had gone, as she stared unfocussed into her plate.

"The Chalice of Reversal," Thadon sighed.

"The Chalice…of Reversal?" Lahallia blinked, Vision still trying to slip over her mind, trying to slither past her act of will keeping it at bay. Not here, not here…_please not here_. People tended not to react well to seeing a Seer in the throes of Vision. She knew that too well…

"Oh, so you've heard of it?" Thadon asked cheerfully.

"No." Lahallia answered, the background of Aureals by the walls hazing over. "Never." Ghostly hands slid slowly over her shoulders, an echo of some future event...or maybe the past...

"You haven't heard of it, yet you know its name? What a strange creature you are." Thadon puzzled. "One of my favorite toys. Does wonders for creativity. Well, not by itself, but it does help. Those Elytra, they're clever little bugs."

Lahallia took a bite of her meal, her head spinning. The taste was oddly amplified. For a few moments she quite forgot to take the fork back out of her mouth. Why was it so hard to think? It wasn't just the Vision.

Sibilant sounds echoed in her ears, the distorted whispers of words yet unheard...words for her. For her, and no one else...

"Is this making sense? Look, you eat the Felldew, then use the Chalice, and find the world a much brighter and happier place. Honest. But I don't have it. So I can't eat Felldew, because that would just be bad. I mean, really bad. Damn her!" Thadon pounded his fist on the table.

The Vision fled at the sharp exclamation, like a cat twining around ankles before exiting. "Her, Your Grace?" Lahallia asked stupidly, dropping her fork again.

"We hold on to fleeting things even as we slip. I knew, and yet I indulged myself anyway. I indulged her a fair bit, too. Heehee!"

Lahallia shuddered, Vision taking advantage of the lapse of concentration in response to distaste to try and creep up on her, gripping her like an overly tight chemise...

No, not a chemise...armor. Restrictive armor. Elegant. Ornamental. Daedric.

Thadon leaned over, his breath tickling Lahallia's ear, his voice dropped so low only she could hear him. "It was passion, it was..._forbidden_. Oh, the things that would be said if word got out. That made it all the more delicious. From Dementia's own court, no less. Scandalous! Fatal, perhaps. But passion makes no accommodation for self-preservation. It never does."

Her clothes felt like cloth again, as opposed to armor. Surely that sort of carousing _would _be fatal, given the sort that frequented Dementia. Thadon's face was still too close, prompting Lahallia to lean away from him, but not before catching an odd smell on his breath, something separate from the food itself.

Lahallia's eyes fell back on her plate as her body begin to try to shake, barely a tremble. "What happened…?" Lahallia meant what happened to the food, but Thadon had not seemed to notice anything strange.

"Opposites _repel_, strangely enough," he declared flatly, picking with morose disinterest at his food. "All that pleasure and pain locked away now, as if it never happened. _Unfortunately_," he stabbed with no small amount of aggression at the food, "the _Chalice_ is locked away as well. I have no wish to retrieve it myself, but fetching it might do you some good."

Yes, anything to get out of this room, where the lights blurred and the background hazed and everything seemed so...so strange...

Thadon blinked at his plate then sniffed, setting his fork down, looking bleak and forlorn. "My head is positively throbbing now... can you see it? I need to lie down." Getting to his feet, he reached to touch Lahallia's hand, back on the table, but again she pulled away, grateful for the early termination of this party. "Find someone to tell you the rest of the story. Get the Chalice." Thadon declared in a low voice, before he swept out.

"What...what do you put in this stuff?" Lahallia asked Wide-Eye, who still sat at the table.

"Ah..." The Argonian smiled, but not kindly. "Greenmote. I take it you've never had it before."

"Green...mote?" Lahallia blinked. "What...what is it...?" A drug, obviously. A drug that was making the Vision somehow gentler in the onset, but harder to resist.

The Aureal who had walked Lahallia to the party swooped down like a falcon to save her. "With all due respect, I think it is time for Lord Sheogorath's agent to return to her inn," the Aureal declared firmly. "Especially if she is to get an early start for His Grace." With a strong hand around Lahallia's arm the Aureal hefted Lahallia to her feet.

The Altmer did not protest, leaning heavily on the Aureal as she tried to walk, stumbling and shuffling, the spell masking her simple garnet red habit finally failing. "What's greenmote?" Lahallia whispered as the Aureal guided her firmly forward.

"It is a drug. Thadon puts it in his food. I told you, he likes his food and drink, and likes to share the so-called joy," the Aureal said darkly. "It is not a dangerous dose."

Lahallia could not muster coherence to answer back, but nodded. "That's why...after the second course?"

The Aureal nodded, steering Lahallia towards the Beggar's Choice. "Sleep it off. You can get the details from Wide-Eye in the morning."

"She doesn't like me…" Lahallia whined, unable to think clearly enough to say something more intelligent.

The Aureal scoffed. "She will not remember that tomorrow either."

Vision continued to creep up Lahallia's mind. She locked herself in her room, and hobbled over to her bed, collapsing on it, shaking off and on all night as Vision, enhanced, encouraged by greenmote, came and went like the tides on a beach.

--SI--


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen: Paths Cross

--SI--

_The Duchess paced cagily back and forth, biting her nails, or casting furtive looks around the room. The shame of it, that this dress stuffed full of Bosmer maintained the rule over Dementia. Disgusting, when she would commit the greatest, the very worst form of sacrilege against her post and the country she was supposed to oversee. Puppet-Duchess or not, certain expectations were still present and that included _not sleeping with the enemy.

_Her lips thinned as the Bosmer continued her pacing. It didn't matter, really. In the end, it would play out the same. Enough people, enough competent _people knew _about the indiscretion. Perhaps the job would be finished before Lord Sheogorath's pet mortal returned. _

"_I know what you're doing," Syl suddenly hissed, her eyes fixed upon the Mazken, who gave the Bosmer an oh-so-superior look. "I know what you're trying not do…all of you! Clear out! You stay," Syl pointed at the Mazken. _

_For a mortal, cold fear might have welled up in the belly, but a Mazken had more grit – and the promise of returning via the Wellspring. Oh Syl, you've made too many enemies, too many Mazken are too tired of you treating our protection so lightly. Too many are too tired of living with the shame of your actions. Did you really think you could do such a thing, and not pay a price? _

_Even that snooty Altmer running around the Swamps would make a finer Duchess – of course, the Altmer was supposedly quite sane, but that could be fixed. And if Syl were to die very, very soon…_

"_You're plotting against me!" Syl hissed, breaking the Mazken's inner fuming._

_The Mazken held Syl's eyes, a cold smile playing across her face. "Your grace?" _

"_Don't play stupid!" Syl spat, quite literally, shaking as she looked about. "I know it! I know you're plotting to destroy me, you think you're so clever…" The Bosmer continued to snarl softly, her eyes gleaming with madness. Syl smiled. "You can try, but you won't get me. You won't! I won't let you!"_

_The Mazken bowed, knowing the inevitable had come. Syl was so paranoid she was bound to stumble over a real conspiracy, sooner or later. But she had no proof, just her occasionally worse than usual imaginations. She wouldn't see the blow until it landed. _

_Presenting her back to Syl, waiting the cold thrust of steel, the Captain of the Mazken Watch started forward._

_She grunted as the knife buried itself in her back, slipping between the plates in her armor. She smiled as darkness washed in._

_Grakella Nelrene would finish the job, and remind her of her own part in bringing this blot on House Dementia, this stain of shame that was Syl to a very final end. _

--SI--

Opening her heavy eyelids, Lahallia blinked several times before the ceiling came into focus. Lying across her bed like laundry awaiting folding, her muscles ached with stiffness, the feel of cold clammy sweat clinging to her as she managed to sit up, before slipping off the bed to sit on the wonderfully solid, unmoving floor.

Her eyes ached, a souvenir of a night spent in and out of Vision as the greenmote worked its way out of her system. "Damn foreign drugs…" Lahallia slurred aloud, her tongue feeling thick and slimy, as if it were dragged along the floor of a grummite clan's spawning cave.

Dizzy and disoriented, Lahallia slowly found her feet, then found she could stand upon them. Her horrible plaid clothes lay clean and folded on a chair, no longer reposing in the pre-supper crumpled pile. Clearer heads allowing for better casting, Lahallia managed to turn the garments back to the lurid green with purple spots Sheogorath had originally chosen, more because she did not feel particularly creative than because she liked the effect.

This time, the Apocrypha's blade went into storage. Malice, the madness ore sword and Last Resort, Kiliban's dagger, both rested either buckled in place, or hidden in her boot as appropriate. The sword certainly felt malevolent, but this morning the buzz felt more like an eagerness to slake some sort of bloodlust – though Lahallia knew this had to be one of her own perceptions. An unfamiliar sword could do that, the lack of past and future acting on the object itself indicated its newness.

Or did it?

--SI--

Wide-Eye, just as the Aureal indicated, had quite forgotten her dislike of Lahallia from the previous night, and after a moment's disorientation explained exactly what Thadon wanted, before sending Lahallia on her way with directions about as concrete as 'follow the sun for three days, and take a left'.

The task ahead displeased the Seer to no small end, mostly because it involved more Manic drugs, and apparently, a more potent one than the greenmote.

Felldew. A poison in its raw form, but the addictive effects – and the withdrawal, which Lahallia suspected would prove incredibly painful - were negated by the Chalice of Reversal. Lahallia left the city with her destination of Dunroot Burrow in mind.

She followed Overlook Road for quite some distance, taking a lesson from her experience in the Demented Swamps with the Grummites: _stay on the roads_. At least on the road, patrols wandered to and fro on the lookout for trouble. The directions, such as she had, indicated Dunroot Burrow lay to the north and west – assuming, of course, Sheogorath didn't shuffle east and west the way he shuffled daylight, darkness and seemingly distance. Lahallia would not put it past him.

Already she knew she could not count on light and darkness to indicate the proper passage of days, any more than she could count on any clock to tell accurate time. Apparently, Sheogorath felt time was not something he need concern himself or his subjects with. How odd to always find oneself in time for supper, or too late, or just not bother at all…

She shook her head sharply, such nonsense in an Attendant, really. The Apocrypha, with its fixed existence and timelessness, and the general state of order looked more and more homey and inviting as time (more or less) wore on.

Mania did not meet or fall short of Lahallia's expectations for that region. In fact it was almost like expecting to be surprised – which took the surprise out of the equation, but not wholly. For instance, the sky above changed between shades of sky blue, and vivid magenta. The air hung much clearer, dancing with motes of golden dust – which she suspected were actually spores from the giant mushrooms, or pollen from some of the odd though colorful plant life. A cheerful place, if Lahallia could get past the feeling of shadows twisted into the golden haze over everything. A beautiful place, but in and of itself dangerous.

The mushrooms towered like trees, giving Lahallia the incredible sense of getting shrunk upon leaving the gates of New Sheoth. The air smelled odd, too, and here the air, the very ambiance of the place, buzzed with energy barely contained. Trees sported oddly colored leaves, which sometimes changed colors when Lahallia looked away. Sound filled the air, birds, odd hisses and shrieks. Stained-glass like butterflies similar to, if not the ones she encountered in the Fringe, fluttered overhead, little dancing specks of light and color.

Even as Lahallia observed, trying to make sense of the world around her - a wholly fruitless effort - the sky began to fill with dark gray clouds, their bellies almost iron colored. Yet rather than the smell of moisture, Lahallia smelled only the twisting tang of the more excitable energy she now associated with Mania, and oddly enough, the smell of something burning.

Eventually, though, Lahallia had to abandon the road, wading into Mania, its energy buzzing, the pollen spores dancing in the air like golden nuggets. If she had spared a thought, she would have noticed enthusiasm and something akin to cheerfulness seeping into her, as the light overhead warmed her skin, in mimicry of the sun.

--SI--

Orphael frowned at the crystalline spire. Unlike proper crystal, and like all its Dementia duplicates, it had no clarity – it looked solid as the silver finish of his favorite sword. And yet, it was decidedly crystalline, though when struck it gave rather flat notes of surprising sameness. When touched, it felt like air somehow gone solid, and neither gave off nor absorbed light. It was simply there – no reflections, no ordinary characteristics – and while that might be considered usual within the Isles, it was _unusual_ that it seemed so…_ordinary_, compared with the brilliant trees and oversized mushrooms.

Grimacing, Orphael shuddered – the spores floating in the air made his nose twitch, and the glaring brilliance was nothing compared to the cool colors and gray lights of Dementia. If he would have admitted to such a thing as having allergies – unseemly in a Mazken, who stopped service for neither pain, nor sneezes – he would have complained of an allergy to Mania itself and never set foot there again.

The swishing sounds of someone picking their way through the grass caught his ear. Orphael turned sharply, hand on his sword hilt to find an Altmer standing some twenty feet back, having stopped when she realized she'd startled him. "Greetings, Madwoman." Light glinted off the pale Altmer, as if she were a statue of spun gold and ivory. Too pale, far too pale…suspicion about her identity blossomed like bile rising.

Now, after all this time, she chose to make herself know to her previous tracker? Orphael scowled as she continued towards the spire.

Lahallia blinked, then swallowed, surprised to run into a Mazken here, surprised twice by the fact she had recognized his clothes and the back of his head, as the same Mazken at the Taphouse before she left for Xedilian.

"My name is Lahallia." She had an accent Orphael couldn't quite place, as if the words were oddly shaped as they rolled around in her mouth. "I've seen them all across the countryside. What do you know about them?" With that she waded through the grass, into the clearing around the spire, giving Orphael a better look at her. She wore the most luridly green garments he'd ever seen in his life – though he also recognized Lord Sheogorath's own personal touch.

When Lahallia finally looked back at the Mazken she followed his gaze to the green color of her clothes, then winced. "Ah, I forgot." With a motion as if brushing dust from her clothes, the lurid green flaked off, falling to the ground in a shower, revealing the sensible garments in shades of unimaginative, nondescript gray. Part of her wondered if it was worth the magicka, to keep changing the colors.

The fact the green and purple were so utterly vile answered her question.

No wonder Sheogorath hadn't liked that, Orphael mused. The gray was so bland, so _normal,_ it made Orphael's eyes twitch just to look at them – which proved beyond a doubt this Altmer had no idea where she was, apart from the obvious.

Knowledge without understanding. How typical.

Lahallia ignored Orphael's ruminating, prowling past him to examine the spire herself, though without touching it this time. Everything in her posture radiated a sort of highly focused interest, as though only she and the spire existed in all the world. All Lahallia wanted to know was the same thing Orphael wanted to know: did the spires differ between Mania and Dementia?

"Another spire," she announced, evidently thinking aloud, feeling the blissful _lack_ of Vision triggers. Sheogorath might not appreciate it, but _she_ certainly did.

Yes, she decidedly belonged in the Isles, Orphael thought as she listed off the qualities as she tested for them, pacing around the Spire once, then jumping as she came around, catching sight of him again. He could see the disposition towards Dementia. "Hello again," he announced wryly.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Lahallia blinked owlishly, the motion drawing Orphael's attention away from her absurdly gray clothes. Lahallia's discomfort did not go unnoticed as she fumbled for something to say.

Her eyes didn't match. One glittered blue, sharp and intelligent, the other a soft, gentle shade of brown, both currently directed anywhere but at Orphael. "Do you? Know anything about this, I mean," Orphael clarified, nodding to the spire.

The Altmer pursed her lips, then summoned a quill and book, presumably from her backpack. Something about her magicka reminded Orphael of too much dust. If he possessed any lingering doubts about her identity they were gone, replaced with wonder that she had gotten so far along as to put herself in Sheogorath's service. Any Mazken would recognize the Charity of Madness hanging about her neck, the crystal already turning slightly green, as opposed to red. Orphael caught a glimpse of the writing in the book, but found – even upside down – neatly spaced characters as unintelligible as gnarl chatter.

"They are machinations of Order." Lahallia answered simply, using her book as an excuse not to look at the Mazken, lest her discomfort with this conversation become apparent.

Orphael did not need to know how to read a person to know the Altmer was uncomfortable – she was, and he appreciated the pun, like reading an open book. "The last bookworm who came here, trying to catalogue the Isles wound up joining them as a permanent fixture." Orphael announced.

The comment did not surprise Lahallia in the least, knowing as she did how unpopular her Apocrypha affiliations were in a place that resented order and documentation. "Is that so?" she asked, blissfully unconcerned. Then she smiled at Orphael, an impish if somewhat distracted smile. "Thank you for the warning." The thick ropes of past-future clinging near the Mazken shifted, though Lahallia stood her ground. Here, within the range of the spire, he was the only trigger for Vision.

Lahallia felt safe enough in betting that, as long as he didn't touch her, she would not have to worry about unexpected Visions.

Not quite the answer Orphael expected. "Permanent as in elytra fodder," he added. "You're close to an elytra lair, you know. I'd exercise a little caution."

"A lair? Dunroot Burrow?"

"How did you know?" Orphael frowned.

Lahallia rolled her eyes. "I'm on a mission for Duke Thadon, in the course of my work for Lord Sheogorath." The admission of being on an errand for Thadon rankled her. The fact she was on an errand for Thadon, while he was probably strung out on whatever else he liked to use when he couldn't get Felldew, threatened to outright irritate her.

"Ah," Orphael raised a hand, forestalling her next comment. "Then I wish you luck, Mortal." He wished he'd asked her proper name before calling her Mortal – they tended to take offense.

She did not. Perhaps living in the Apocrypha begat her some sensibility when it came to the matter of formal address. "Lahallia," The Altmer corrected. "But, we were talking about this spire…" Turning, she nibbled on the end of her quill, then hesitantly reached out and touched the smooth, flat surface. "If you wait here long enough, it will activate. There will be fighting, then," Lahallia declared, not needing the Sight to make this prediction.

Orphael's first instinct was to draw his sword, but there wasn't anything to fight - yet.

"That is Dunroot Burrow?" Lahallia asked briskly, seeming to extricate herself fomr deep thought.

"Yes, it is," Orphael nodded distractedly, eyeing the spire, wondering what she meant by it activating.

"Thank you, safe journey, Mazken." Lahallia started towards the indicated lair.

"Wait a moment."

Lahallia gasped the moment Orphael's hand closed over her arm, Vision screaming louder than usual within this neutral zone.

At first Orphael thought she was simply overreacting when she gasped, and tried to pull away as if she found his touch absolutely repellent. That is, until she went rigid and began to shake, her eyes crossed, then rolling back into her head, as if in the throes of a seizure.

Orphael knelt, his hand still resting on her shoulder, realization dawning as the Altmer continued to shake, garbled nonsense gritting through clenched teeth, lips working furiously.

She was a _Seer_ – and obviously he'd triggered her vision, meaning she was probably a strong one. Orphael pressed a hand against her collar bones, and the other to her forehead, casting a calming spell all Mazken knew. When dealing with mad people, one had to know how to calm them down. Surely it would work for Seers too.

The Altmer went limp, her eyes half closed, showing a thin strip of white, and her mismatched irises. Orphael watched her shallow breathing, feeling mildly guilty at setting off such a violent Vision – though, he argued, how was he to know she was a _seer_ – didn't they usually fall under Vaermina's jurisdiction?

--SI--

_Everyone stood gathered round the deep, wide pit, gazing into its depths. Writhing and snarling like too many baliwogs in a tank struggled _clowns_. Hundreds of them, painted-faced, some brilliantly colored, others looking nothing short of psychotic, all with unnaturally sharp teeth and gleaming eyes full of nothing but bloodlust as they struggled and squirmed amongst their fellows._

_More than one Mazken backed away, but in this case, he held his ground. It would not do for one of the Favored to give ground when faced with a pit of snarling, salivating clowns, some of whom occasionally looked up, bright eyes gleaming with the question of 'what does Mazken taste like?' – though in far fewer words. _

_They also smelled funny, a rank, noxious odor which induced nausea, unlike anything he'd ever smelled before. _

"_Look at them go!" Lord Sheogorath cheered, gazing raptly at the pit full of clowns. _

"_A brilliant idea, Sire," the Autkendo answered, nodding curtly, shifting her helmet. _

"_It is!" Lord Sheogorath noted. ""They don't like being the pit, do they? It's too bad – because I do! Adds a dash of flare to this part of the Swamps. Haskill!" _

_The Contradiction appeared at his master's elbow, exactly when called for. "A creative answer to the current difficulties, my lord," Haskill answered, eyeing the clowns with marked disinterest._

_For a moment it looked as though Lord Sheogorath would push Haskill into the pit, but then he turned to the Autkendo. "What do you feed to clowns?" Sheogorath demanded, frowning, his eyebrows crinkled._

_The Autkendo looked around, evidently hoping she was not about to be volunteered for that dubious honor. "No idea, my lord." _

"_You can't guess?" Sheogorath's tone became dangerous._

_The Autkendo took a step back, then pretended to take careful observation of the clowns. _

_He was too slow on the uptake, having missed the 'better you than me' look on the Autkendo's face. _

"In you go, laddie!" _Sheogorath cheered as a hearty thwack on the back from the Autkendo sent him falling, falling straight into the pit. He struggled, writhed. Hands everywhere. _Teeth _everywhere...and _pain_._

_--SI--_

"Easy, easy."

Lahallia gasped as if she had stopped breathing, light searing her eyes as they opened wide, for a moment showing Orphael far too much white, prompting him to increase the intensity of the calming spell he continued to maintain.

Lahallia struggled, but found her limbs leaden, realizing belatedly, looking into the Mazken's blue eyes, he was not trying to hurt her, but rather, keep her from hurting herself.

Ceasing her struggles, Lahallia tried to say 'thank you', but it came out somewhat garbled, far back in her achy throat than she would have liked.

Fed to clowns, she thought dazedly. He fed you to cannibalistic clowns…and for what purpose? It was one of the reasons she hated the Visions. So often they were not pleasant in the slightest.

And deep down, Lahallia realized, she was justified. She had never liked, or trusted clowns. Now she knew why.

She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. No, despite the calm grace he presented, she could see the concern in the way his eyes kept flickering, looking for minute signs of recovery.

"Thank you. You may stop spelling me…I'm all right." Lahallia carefully announced.

Orphael ceased the spell, reached to help her sit up, but stopped, unsure if this would trigger a relapse. "My apologies, Seer."

Lahallia nodded, rubbing her neck.

"May I inquire…?" Proper or not, Orphael could not help feeling mildly curious. He always thought a Seer would _speak_ about whatever she saw, let people know.

"I saw a Mazken devoured by cannibalistic clowns in a deep pit." Lahallia answered, careful not to mention who the Mazken was.

"What sort of idiot sends a Seer to _this_ place?" Orphael asked, though more to himself than to the Altmer. The residents usually had enough to worry about with not getting eaten by the local wildlife, such a vibrant place as the Isles was probably riddled with things a Seer would not want to face.

"Lord Azura brought word to we, the Attendants of the Apocrypha…"

"That _tomb_?" Orphael demanded with distaste, unable to stop himself. Hermaeus Mora _knew_ better. Orphael _knew_ she was an Attendant – how could she not be, looking like _that_ - but his disgust with the Apocrypha refused to stay silent.

"It's not a tomb!" Lahallia shot back indignantly, indignation burning away the aftereffects of the Vision, along with much of her sympathy for someone fed to flesh-eating clowns for no apparent reason. "It's the Greatest of Libraries, the Hoard of Knowledge…"

"The _Big Tomb_!" Orphael barked back.

Lahallia scrambled to her feet, bright spots appeared on her cheeks, indicating her limited composure crumbling. "It is not a _tomb_!" she spat, with more feistiness than Orphael expected. "It's a well-ordered, well-appointed…"

"Crypt?" Orphael asked innocently as he regained his own feet, watching the Seer's color rise. Her face did take on the most expansive array of red shades he'd seen in quite awhile, and agent of Sheogorath or not…she was fun to tease.

Sane people were. He wondered if she might even show further unexpected tendencies, like creativity. Certainly not something he expected was encouraged within the Apocrypha.

Lahallia's jaw shook with repressed anger. "You…" she could to think of an insult sharp enough, a remark to cut deeply enough. "You…"

Orphael watched the glitter of anger in her eyes, but behind it he saw the glitter of Dementia. "How long has it been since you got _really _angry?"

"Pompous ass," Lahallia spat.

Disappointingly mundane. But, if that was the best she could come up with… "You'll need to find a sample of Felldew before Dunroot Burrow lets you in."

Lahallia stopped her stolid march up the hill, not wanting to admit she had not known this previously.

Orphael watched Lahallia, standing rigidly straight, giving her attention even if with ill grace. The idea if having been a little hard on her did not occur to Orphael. The idea of not wanting her to get flattened by the elytra before she got started did. "Are you sure you're up to the task set before you?"

"Certainly. I helped kill the Gatekeeper didn't I?" Lahallia asked.

"I wasn't going to bring that up – not when you were technically a fugitive, and running from the law…" Orphael knew he shouldn't bait the easy to annoy Altmer, but it _was_ such fun.

Lahallia turned sharply to find Orphael smirking at her, not unlike a cat might. Lahallia jerked her chin irritably at the crystalline obelisk. "The Greymarch has begun – does that mean anything to you?"

Orphael felt unease flicker. It sounded familiar and yet, he could not honestly say he'd heard of it.

"It's coming, and it's very dangerous. You'll want to be careful around these in the very near future…" There was no mistaking the fact this was a not so subtle threat. "The orderliness would suit the Apocrypha, but would certainly damage _you_."

"I'll bear that in mind," Orphael announced dryly, watching Lahallia continued to glower austerely. "Not all elytra produce Felldew, you'll have to check the carcasses. You'll find it in little sacs." It was the best sort of peace offering he could give – if she stomped off to fight elytra like this, she'd probably get herself killed. It also made Orphael feel like a bully, when the elf so obviously had lost the knack of maintaining a good argument.

And she said the Apocrypha was such a wonderful place.

Lahallia's expression did not soften. "Thank you," she responded curtly.

"It's green…and very addictive."

Lahallia's expression finally softened somewhat. She fully expected him to offer to go with her. Quite frankly, she felt he'd have more risk of getting killed by her than by an enemy. No, Daedric Princes got a little uptight when guests killed off their retainers. "If you're offering to come," Orphael nodded once, "I appreciate it, but I think it would be healthier for both of us if I go alone."

"Are you certain?" Orphael frowned. He had expected her to take up the help, with a warning not to get lippy with her again.

Lahallia poorly repressed a chuckle at the Mazken's confusion. "Quite. Surely you don't enjoy battles of wits with the unarmed?"

Orphael smiled, revealing white, slightly fanged teeth. "Not usually." But she did turn such pretty shades of red.

"Then best not let the word get out you make exceptions. Good day."

"Seer." Much to Lahallia's surprise Orphael bowed cordially. Pausing only long enough to return an abbreviated similar courtesy, Lahallia started off again, wondering whether this entire conversation had not turned out a complete waste of their time.

Especially as, she discovered, she neither liked, nor disliked, the Mazken, the same position she held upon meeting him for the first time. At least, she argued, she knew a little more about these elytra and this Felldew she was supposed to find and ingest.

--SI--


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty: Addiction

--SI--

Lahallia knelt beside the dead elytra, easily locating the bulging sac of viscous goo glowing softly within its membrane wrap. She knew what elytra looked like, had seen them before now, and so noticed when this one _glowed_. The translucent membrane split, as if eager to disgorge its green innards, which smelled strongly and unpleasantly.

Lahallia's stomach clenched, her throat locking up at the smell. Could she even get it into her mouth without throwing it back up, knowing what it was? Pulling her gloves off, she tucked them into her sword belt, then forced her fingers into the gelatinous glowing green goo. Unlike first glance, it was not a smooth slimy sort of substance, but peculiarly textured, as if things had previously dissolved, or been in the process of dissolving, forming dark patches of fibrous solids. Yet the sac yielded no more than a handful of Felldew, one hit, Lahallia supposed the lingo went.

And no idea how long the effects would last…before the withdrawal set in.

Her throat clenched, threatening rebellion, to send the green goo spraying everywhere if she tried to swallow it. She had never tried skooma, and until the meal laced with greenmote she avoided mind altering drugs and alcohol out of moderation, for fear of weakened state of mind triggering Visions.

To take this stuff willingly, now, however…

Caught between the rock of necessity and the hard place of long-held practice Lahallia warily regarded the goo in her hand, still hot, still _potently disgusting_. Sliding her knife back into its sheath, Lahallia rose, her handful of Felldew in hand, leaving the carcass of the elytra where it lay. A raucous battle of unwillingness to fail her master, anger at finding herself in this madhouse circus, and fear at what she was about to do raged inside her.

For once, fear of Vision did not fall near the top of the list. She feared the almost legendary – or so she gathered –withdrawal, when the Felldew finally started to work its way out of her system. _That _frightened her – the fact the effects needed a special tool to negate frightened her, the thought of facing these elytra in their home burrow while fighting withdrawal or whatever euphoria this mess caused frightened her.

Doubt gnawed at her: what if the Chalice didn't work, once she got it? What if, somehow, she remained some doomed Felldew addict forever? What if it was a hallucinogen, every bit as bad as Vision? No, _worse,_ for in all her history, she knew she had always managed to know when she Saw, and when she dwelled in the real world. With hallucinations one could never be sure, and when foes were present…

Lahallia found the burrow's entrance, covered by an oddly rigid membrane. Predictably it refused to admit her while she simply carried the Felldew. Her throat and stomach demanded loudly she _not do it_. Stubbornly, however, Lahallia nibbled the Felldew, resisting the urge to spit the foul-tasting, wobbly mess back out. In all her long life – forgetting the fact she had spent much of it in the Apocrypha – she never tasted anything so completely foul as that first nibble. Gagging and coughing, she glowered balefully at the resolutely barred entrance, her tongue stinging and tingling, like eyes exposed to the fumes of mint oil.

The second bite tasted marginally less foul, the third almost pleasant, the last bite quite agreeable.

The door opened…

Lahallia stumbled, apparently over her own feet, toppling headlong into the burrow, and down a long sloping tunnel. She landed in an undignified heap at the bottom, eyes closed, sprawling in disarray as her head began to swim…

…but it was the most _pleasant _feeling, lying there on the warm earth, in the warm barrow, with doubt and worry, and niggling suspicions all hazed over so wonderfully. Who cared if Vision decided to savage her mind like a hoard of angry cannibalistic clowns? You couldn't miss what you didn't have, and for the moment, Lahallia was out of her mind in a way previously never tried.

Sitting up, her head lolling slightly, she found the sensation of the room about her spinning did not affect her balance nearly as much as she thought. Brushing dirt from her face, her limbs moved slowly, strangely heavy. It would be _so_ nice to just settle back and rest…

Except, Felldew euphoria or not, Lahallia's strong will to do those things which she perceived as duty remained insistent, though muffled.

The Chalice.

She needed to find the Chalice…and – that willful part of her mind added sneakily, for who knew better how to manipulate Lahallia than the elf herself? – if she got it, it would certainly mean she could enjoy this heady euphoria a bit longer, without worry about the eventual side effects.

And wouldn't that be grand?

"Yes, yes indeed," Lahallia nodded, quite ignoring the fact that, at some point, she'd begun addressing the wall, for lack of anywhere else, speaking both parts of her internal dialog. Something she had never done before, which would have worried her greatly _if_ she had maintained more of her right mind and _if_ she were not perfectly, blissfully, content to nearly skip – or weave along with an almost drunken grace, for her ability to walk a straight line had sublimated beneath the Felldew's effects – off to find this Chalice.

On her short list of worries, carrying on a conversation with herself, out loud, did not merit concern. After all – who was there to hear it?

Lahallia's hazy state of mind blurred the elytra tunnels, hard-packed earthen things twisting this way and that unexpectedly, carrying the heavy smell of soil, wood from the roots occasionally traipsing through the tunnels, elytra musk, and the faintest trace of a smell Lahallia knew without ever having smelled before.

Felldew.

The effects did not last long, as if the first fight with the elytra somehow caused it to run its course faster than usual. No longer filled with the heady haze of general complacency, Lahallia found her bare hands shaking – though the fact she did not have her protective gloves on did not occur to her, as her mind began to bog down, the niggling thought pulsing like some dark heartbeat in the back of her mind: _more Felldew. _

Gritting her teeth, Lahallia continued through the winding barrow, the shakes increasing, discomfort beginning to poke her in the joints, making her irrationally irritable and twitchy.

--SI--

Out under the bright sun of Mania, Orphael looked down at the dead elytra carcass, the Felldew sac split open and emptied. He recognized the hints of methodical work as decidedly the Altmer's, which meant she had gotten into the barrow without too much trouble.

No, the trouble would come once the effects started wearing off.

The light did not glint off the obelisk as he turned to look down on it from this higher vantage point. Normally, he would not have lingered after awhile, since the obelisks never really did anything, except break up the landscape, oozing their potent aura of neutrality, so thick it felt like oil upon the skin. He could see it if he squinted, like a dull heat haze hanging around the obelisk.

Yet the Altmer believed emphatically something should happen to the obelisk, perhaps even soon.

If anyone had heard him say he was watching the Obelisk to see if it did anything strange, with Lahallia's words as a warning, they might have smirked, arguing to themselves that he was simply watching for the Altmer to wander back out, to see if she survived the trial that mad Bosmer had come up with for her. That he was worried.

It only went to show what people knew. An Apocrypha Attendant might have trouble in the Isles, in dealing with the nonsense, the unexpected, but simple facts and a sense of certainty of her capability did not dispose him to worry about her - not in a physical sense, anyway.

But if she did lose her mind, and join the Isles properly, well, that was hardly a terrible thing. A Seer in the Isles. Sheogorath would want her in the capital, until the novelty of a Seer's Visions proclaimed for the court wore off. If she could, indeed, disclaim while shaking and shuddering like that.

Orphael stopped outside the influence of the obelisk, noting with trepidation the range had increased in the time it took to walk up the hillside and back down, almost as if the bubble of dead space were inflating, ready to pop.

Finally he walked back up to it. It still felt innocuous, though perhaps the Seer's words cast an ominous gloom over the obelisk. And such gloom was not well-suited to the Manic side of the Isles, the very reason he sought an obelisk in _their_ territory, as opposed to one in Dementia – so the usual pall over everything would not inhibit his research…

_Research_, Orphael frowned. He couldn't help feeling a little hypocritical, having needled the Seer about the Apocrypha home and her knowledge-gathering when he himself was doing almost the same thing.

_No_, he corrected himself, _it's not the same thing_. _This_ was a matter of Isles security - not the vanity of aspiring to collect every shred of knowledge, to lock it away in the Apocrypha where few would see it and fewer ever tell about it. He should, he knew, just let the matter go. If the Altmer wanted to rot inside those dusty grey halls, what business was it of his? None at all.

But it still rankled him that _anyone_ could be so _insanely_ blind – especially in a place like that. Here at least the insanity of it made complete sense – or such sense as could be found in a place like this.

Orphael scowled at the obelisk as much as at the circular logic, fighting the Mazken disposition to play shepherd to mortals in the Isles and the wish to follow the circular thinking a few rounds more, growing more annoyed with every successive loop.

The ease of circular logic, of spinning one's mental wheels, and the perverse desire to do so for no reason other than to raise one's ire, decidedly explained why so many mortals thought Mazken and Aureals cranky.

The more he frowned at it, the more familiar it seemed, as if he had seen it before, but not as it was _now_. Which was ridiculous, of course. The buzz in his fingers however, disagreed, the sense of familiarity all too disquieting.

--SI--

Before she experienced it, Lahallia believed withdrawal the stage where one was weakened, like a caterpillar shivering in a cocoon until the body readjusted to the lack of a foreign substance.

She was wrong.

It _started_ that way. The empty feeling accompanied by the bogging of the brain, the wilting of will, the sapping of strength. The stage at which every step was an act of will, where breath began to come short and the head pounded and throbbed with pain and very real, very desperate want.

Then Lahallia's first taste of self loathing. The momentarily unquenchable disgust that she could crave something as obviously bad for her as the Felldew was – for it had, after all, put her in this position – and yet at the same time the euphoria _haunted _her, like sweet memories long since cobwebbed and buried in dust.

It brought to mind _him_. How those first few days were sweet as honey, golden as sunshine, the freakishness of her existence temporarily unknown, hidden, like evidence of some unspeakable crime. Yet even like him, it quickly turned to ash and disgust. He'd found out – badly – about the Visions.

Memories of betrayal and abandonment, of loneliness and soul-wrenching pain proceeded her turning to the clergy, then to the Daedra for help welling up inside her like the poison metabolizing out of her blood. Lahallia's throat tightened as her eyes filled with tears, half of her too shocked at the sudden resurgence of memories almost forgotten, usually lurking like shadows, but banished by the slightest sliver of light.

Not so now.

All of it, the sadness, the deep-rooted pain all the worse for having festered silently, unnoticed, the listlessness, the frustration, the annoyance and surprise disappeared in the instant she saw the green-glowing elytra. It was all replaced by a sort of desperate strength which terrified that part of her still retaining some semblance of objective thought, recoiled as Malice leaped free of its scabbard as if alive.

She could have clawed the felldew free of it's elytra shell, she wantedit so badly. _Needed it. _

But it would be so much faster to simply use the sword.

The disgust of how easily she felled the elytra, how quickly she would, could, did kill to feed her new habit barely registered as she ripped the Felldew sac open with her bare hands, fingernails piercing and tearing the membrane until the green contents disgorged themselves into her waiting palms.

This time she did not nibble cautiously, hoping to not have to take it all in: she devoured it like a ravenous wolf at the kill, mindless of the mess it made on her face and hands, leaving her panting as the effects settled in, erasing the dark thoughts, to which the withdrawal granted more power than they had had in years, easing the physical pain.

The euphoria brought back her logic for a single moment, long enough to remind her why memory of _him _lay buried so deeply, never to be exhumed. Less to do with the way he'd cast her aside, more to do with her own foolish naiveté. Yes, she had looked for love, then, for acceptance. She'd looked in all the right places…and still managed to find the wrong object of affection.

Lahallia staggered to her feet as the world blurred blissfully around her, enabling her to continue wandering through the twisting, looping tunnels like a child on holiday. Despite the euphoria, Lahallia still heard it, in the back of her mind: _Felldew. It's a poison. Hurry up - don't take any more of it. Find the chalice and let's get out of here. _

By the time the second fix wore off, Lahallia found herself desperate to find the Chalice, and not because of the ability to consume Felldew without ill effect. She was desperate to purge the poison from her blood, the Felldew wearing off making her irrational, savage. Reducing her to something less than Altmer, less than human, less than a starving vampire.

Yes, it was only an elytra, a glowing green cross between a mantis, a wasp, and she didn't know what else. But it had not attacked her, had offered her no violence while the Felldew was still strong in her body. She'd killed it because it was there, because it meant she would not have to suffer the withdrawal at all, could simply skip over it, avoid the pain and the black, crushing doubt. Little better than an animal bent on simply _existing_, all the while knowing she was supposed to be better than this.

And she'd gulped the Felldew down to crush the sound of her own self-loathing, nearly choking on the rising bitterness which would soon grow quiet, but not entirely silent.

--SI--


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty One: Waking Nightmares

---SI--

Lahallia stumbled, landing awkwardly against the massive, heavy doors marking some sort of inner sanctum. Ragged breathing, double vision, and the constant feeling of standing between a rock and a hard place made her feel _old_ in a way not usually experienced by a healthy elf. As if the Apocrypha had created a vacuum inside her, and now all the years gone by unnoticed within those grey halls came crashing into the gap they would normally inhabit, higgledy-piggledy, pickup sticks...

Lahallia shook her head to clear it, the Felldew effect wearing off again, making her shake, tremble, and bringing her old self disgust back. It took only once to discover that gorging on the stuff did not make its euphoric effects last longer, did not buy her time in which she could function almost normally – usually towards the end of the euphoria which lasted less and less as the process of euphoria, normalcy, and withdrawal repeated. No, gorging only made it worse when it _did_ wear off.

More than once she found herself shouting at ruined stumps or root bundles bearing the marks of Malice's blade, irrationally raging at the walls, seeing old half-forgotten faces in the dirt and shadows. Twice she'd simply slipped to the floor, weeping incoherently, unsure if she could get up, happy to simply curl up and _die _to break the cycle.

But she had not.

The door swung open silently, revealing a massive vault. With the feeling of stepping into society, eyes burning, slightly delirious as the shakes redoubled, Lahallia did not have time to register anything about the room before alarmed shouts echoed through the vault.

Within moments mortals, all bearing the wobbly walk of those in the grip of Felldew's euphoria appeared before her, shouting excitedly, incoherently...and hostilely.

Half of Lahallia wanted to blast them out of her way, char their bones to ash simply for standing between herself and the Chalice…

Had the Felldew still run strong in her veins she would have. However, withdrawal made her semi-lucid and allowed her to feel a surge of pity for these people, wondering if they were prisoners here by choice or not. She could not deny the fact that keeping criminals strung out on Felldew would keep them from making mischief anywhere, but to each other.

The room reeked of Felldew, the glorious scent of it burrowing into Lahallia's nostrils. With a w ill, she raised her hands, shouting loudly so the words echoed and reverberated, her casting sloppy from the growing sense of withdrawal, the desperate _need_ for something.

The closest she ever felt to _needing_ something so badly was when she had needed…him. But like with the Felldew, it quickly soured. It was undoubtedly a dark spot in her life. In her present state of mind, she could not tell which addiction left her feeling worse.

The though died even as the addicted mortals crumpled to the ground, consciousness stripped from them as the Felldew had stripped Lahallia's dignity. Lahallia started forward, climbing the many, many stairs leading up, up, up, in her mind representing the climb out of the depths of degradation and addiction.

The Chalice gleamed pleasantly on a plinth in the middle of the room, though Lahallia had to sit down on the top step, breathing hard, trying to ignore the tantalizing smell of Felldew. Finally, she got to her feet, each step more like an act of supreme will than the last. Her reflection in the water within the Chalice blinked back at her, eyes mismatched, face smeared with dirt and the telltale green globs of Felldew around her mouth.

Seizing hold of the Chalice in both hands, Lahallia took a cautious sip, then a longer draught until she finally choked, setting it back down, sloshing the contents.

The world came into focus, sharp, clear, and bringing painful realizations even as actual pain vanished. Wiping her mouth on her sleeve, Lahallia tried to ignore the nausea welling up in her stomach, forcing the rest of the water in the Chalice down.

It did nothing to quell the nausea, which came not from lingering Felldew withdrawal, or addiction, but from the shame of how low she had sunk – within her own mind - to retrieve the Chalice. The feeling of contamination, of filthy impurity, made her skin crawl even as she looked around. Part of her still remembered the Felldew euphoria, even gently nudged the greater, utterly appalled whole to make use of the Chalice while she could.

Who knew how long the addicts lying on the stairs would remain out of it? And why shouldn't she find some comfort after such a horrible trip?

Lahallia nearly flung the nearest thing across the room, her shout of defiance inarticulate. However, the nearest object was the Chalice, still in her hand, and she did not feel like walking all over the place to fetch it. Setting it back on its plinth, Lahallia took stock of the room, only half seeing it as her mind moved at double-time, as if trying to catch up with her body after lying dormant for…for who knew how long?

At first, Lahallia meant to gather up what Felldew she could find – in case they woke up needing a fix, not realizing in their single-minded pursuit of euphoria the Chalice no longer reposed upon its plinth. As soon as she touched it the nausea welled up so fast, and so strong she barely managed to stagger back to avoid hitting her head on a table, before coughing hard, her ribs and stomach protesting, until finally she vomited up the Felldew she had already ingested.

Wiping her mouth again, Lahallia staggered back, feeling more nauseated by the sight of the green-tinged expulsion. Oddly, though, some comfort came after ridding herself of the remains of the Felldew. The second and third bouts of coughing brought on by the sight and stench of the mess on the floor resolved her.

She could not touch the Felldew, even to save those addicted from a painful withdrawal. Lamentable for them, but was existence in a constant torpor so wonderful…?

She did not dare answer the question, jamming the Chalice into her backpack, checking her gear, and taking the door she could see. Surely a place like this would have a back door. Surely if the Aureals ever had to come here, to bring or retrieve the residents, they would not go through elytra infested tunnels.

---SI--

Orphael did not remember the last time he had a nightmare, seeing as how Mazken did not actually need to sleep like humans, nor like elves. They simply liked to, to take the time to rest and relax, and let weary muscles take their ease.

The sight meeting him, however, was a scene straight out of a nightmare. At first he mistook it for his own dark reflection in the surface of the crystal – until a _creature_ stepped free of the obelisk, melting out of it. Ignoring the tug of memory, of Mazken bursting from the Wellspring, Orphael drew his sword, backing away. It was not a knight, as the Seer described them.

In fact, it took no notice of him at all, putting both hands against the obelisk, like a father waiting to feel his unborn child kick. The obelisk suddenly separated, top and bottom parting to reveal a swirl of power, the focused version of the usual aura hanging around the obelisks. The neutrality, the perfect deadness of the air, the land, made Orphael's nose twitch worse than the spores of Mania ever did.

_Then_ the knights melted out, towering even over the Mazken – four of them.

Orphael backed up further. Whatever their putative leader was doing, the knights certainly saw him, perceived him, and recognized a threat. A threat to be removed, if the swords leaping from out of nowhere, or maybe shooting from crystalline arms like cat's claws extending, were any indication.

Mazken might fight to the death for Lord Sheogorath, but that did not mean they did not know how to count, or that they did not appreciate the odds. Generally, odds were simply ignored. Orphael resolved himself to simply taking as many of the Knights with him as possible, before all his research dispersed into the Waters of Oblivion, lost forever.

---SI--

Tired and feeling extremely _threadbare_, the last thing Lahallia wanted to do was join in a fight. However, the sight of the Mazken so grossly outnumbered by the now active obelisk's crystalline guardians would have encouraged far less altruistic people than the Altmer to jump into the fray.

Springing forward, Lahallia drew Malice, moving faster than she expected, given her current state of being. Ruthlessly ramming it to the hilt through the crystalline knight about to do the same to Orphael's momentarily unprotected back, Lahallia hissed softly as the knight flailed before collapsing, taken wholly unawares.

Orphael spun at the grinding sound of a weapon on armor, to find a knight looming over him – a knight crumbling into dull silvery dust, revealing a tired, dirt smudged Altmer, panting with flushed cheeks, but ready for the fight. Raising her free hand she motioned past him, speaking a single, unintelligible word. Orphael had a split second to look over his shoulder before the other knights and their leader slammed into the obelisk, melting into it.

Kiliban's assertion of the knight's hearts having some virtue echoed in Lahallia's head as she acted upon instinct. Sifting through the remains of the knight she'd dispatched she found the gray crystal lump, then staggered forward, gritting her teeth at a stitch in her side.

Orphael took the heart from her, his free hand still gripping his sword. Up close she smelled as though she'd had a bad day, elytra slime on her clothes, Felldew hanging like spirits about her. Not exactly offensive, but to a Mazken, very telling.

"They're not gone." Lahallia grit out, ignoring the brush of fingers against her gloveless hands as Orphael freed the lump from her grip. "Push it through the obelisk," she panted. The fact the obelisk absorbed the knights and - what was it? A priest? – their leader surprised Lahallia. However, as it gave the Mazken and herself a moment in which to reorganize, to prepare, she did not plan to question it, any more than she questioned the lack of Vision triggers around the obelisk, or associated with the knights.

Orphael obeyed Lahallia wordlessly, but not before sneezing forcefully into the crook of his elbow. First spores, now this.

The neutrality, the nothingness, spread from the obelisk, its increased range of dead space seemed to rock, to contract then expand, but it stopped expanding. Orphael could feel the inherent power of the Isles beginning to push back, trying to see in, to reclaim the patch of Madness taken from them. "How did you…" Orphael began. He had underestimated her, if she could destroy the knights so easily…

"Not now!" Lahallia shouted, her voice breaking, though whether from fear or exhaustion Orphael could not tell.

Turning, Orphael's face fell for a moment as a knight's hand and sword emerged, as if clawing its way free of the obelisk, then he grinned. Not so powerful as he'd thought, then, though picking a fight with Lahallia provided a certain amount of amusement and an aspect of fun. Picking a fight with Lahallia _as backup_ proved more fun and more amusing in that he did not have to worry about an opponent's sword finding his back, when the odds were four onto one. The fact he might not die and lose all his research gave the Altmer quite a few points in his book.

Lahallia found it easier to predict the knights than she could have imagined. As soon as they registered two Isles-defending aggressors, they split their forces evenly, advancing mindlessly upon their foes as quickly as they returned from within the crystalline obelisk. Lahallia blasted them both back into the obelisk again, the telekinesis spells beginning to require her to dip into her magical reserves.

Apparently she was not as rejuvenated by the Chalice as she first thought.

Orphael gave a bark of a laugh as his sword found its mark, cleaving through the knight's neck.

Lahallia dodged a blow from the other knight, its sword melting into in a small spire of crystal the clever Altmer – and she was, Orphael thought offhandedly as he managed to dodge his knight and run the pesky little Order priest through, a clever creature - had contrived to stand before.

With a fierceness the Mazken had not expected from the Altmer, Lahallia hacked into the disarmed knight with little finesse and as much strength as she could muster, Malice biting deep into the crystalline armor.

Orphael pressed the heart-like lump of crystal from his fallen knight into the obelisk, feeling the oppressive orderliness begin to wobble, destabilizing as Manic energy sloshed and roiled.

Pale from the magical turmoil, tired from battling addiction and physical foes, Lahallia thrust a third crystal lump against the obelisk…but it did not go in.

Undaunted, Lahallia counted to four. She would have counted to five, except she saw a hand – a hand she recognized as belonging to the priest-like creature - melting out of the crystal, at which Orphael mercilessly hacked, buying her time.

Lahallia tried again. This time the crystal enveloped the cold crystal heart, like the sea envelops a drowning man.

The resultant magical explosion knocked both unprepared fighters back, Orphael staggering, Lahallia tripping to land flat on her back. The hand of the priest, hacked to pieces, drew back into the suddenly inert obelisk, which closed, looming silently harmless over the landscape.

Lahallia struggled to her feet, expecting something…m_ore_. The obelisk to explode at the very least. However, it simply stood there, a silvery brooding spire of painfully mundane crystal, set against the brilliant backdrop of Mania.

"Are you all right?" Orphael asked politely, not as though demanding a status report from a post-battle situation. More as if Lahallia had simply tripped while they were out walking some afternoon. Most of his energy, however, went to keeping himself from looking too winded, from letting the Altmer know how much the fight had taken out of him. As this was a part of his training as a Mazken, it worked.

Lahallia nodded, hunching forward, inwardly jealous at the fact the Mazken only looked a little sweaty and a lot dusty, while she felt ready to keel over and _die_. "Yes, thank you." She swallowed, her head aching. "You?"

Orphael snorted, eloquently informing Lahallia a Mazken feared no crystalline knight, and would consider it base treachery to the Isles to be killed by one. Which actually made the Altmer smile wanly – sometimes the ego of these creatures was overwhelming. Lahallia actually stifled a giggle when Orphael sneezed again, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes, looking for all the world as if he had…_allergies_.

Surely, the Altmer struggled not to grin, Mazken didn't succumb to such a mortal weakness as _allergies_?

"How did you know the obelisk would do that?" He waved at the now inert structure, his words muffled as his nose continued to twitch and tingle with another pending sneeze.

Lahallia explained Xedilian, which also explained how she had deduced with quickness Orphael found admirable, the effectiveness of the hearts for disabling the obelisk. "I don't think it's permanently disabled," she concluded. "More likely, it will take some time to recharge, then it'll start spewing those…those…_behemoths_ again."

"All those years of trying to figure these things," Orphael gave the nearest crystal offshoot a kick, "and I could have just asked you."

Lahallia gave a dry laugh, the nervous titter of someone coming off the rush of adrenaline. "I didn't know until recently, either."

"Did you get what you came for?" Orphael asked, looking over Lahallia's gear.

Lahallia nodded, the smile sliding off her face. "Yes, it's in my bag." Heaving a heavy sigh, Lahallia flopped back down onto the grass, her brows furrowed, a combination of the early stages of magicka overdraw, a very long, stressful day, and the fact she had nothing in her stomach at all piling up on her like too many burdens. "I'm going to have lunch…care to join me?" she offered, looking up at the Mazken, now impossibly tall from this angle.

Orphael shrugged. "No, thank you. But, if you're heading back to New Sheoth," he paused for her to confirm or deny this.

"I am," Lahallia declared, fishing food from her backpack, as well as her book and quill.

"Then I'll wait for you to finish and see you get there in one piece. If this is part of a greater calamity…"

"It is," Lahallia supplied. "Lord Sheogorath hinted it was." Chewing on the toughened bread and somewhat stale cheese, Lahallia felt her headache beginning to ease.

Grimly, Orphael flopped beside her on the grass, looking at the obelisk. With a snort to resist a sneeze, he produced a flask, which he uncorked, took a sip of, then offered to Lahallia.

For a moment she wanted to refuse on instinct, but she also thought she recognized the nonverbal calling of a truce, or a compliment on her actions when danger was thick as the spores dancing cheerfully in the air. No, more like a peace treaty between people who'd killed crystalline knights together.

Taking the flask, she wiped the mouth off with a handkerchief produced from inside a pocket, then took a swig, letting the rich Dementia liquor slid down her throat, easing scratchiness she'd failed to notice before. "That's good stuff," she declared idly, handing the flank back.

"It is indeed," Orphael nodded, then snorted softly to forestall another sneeze, necessitating him to excuse the gesture, for he could see the concealed amusement in the Altmer's mismatched eyes. "Your face is filthy."

"You're covered in order dust," Lahallia answered with bland sarcasm. Dust which was probably making him sneeze. She'd never heard such a sniffly Mazken before, so she filed the information away, in case he started teasing again. It was always nice to have a comeback, and she felt fairly certain teases about a Mazken with allergies would end any snide or rude comments about the Apocrypha.

The Altmer and the Mazken exchanged looks, smiled, then looked away, back at the crystalline obelisk.

"I'm Orphael."

"Lahallia."

Which, Orphael reflected, he ought to have remembered.

Neither spoke for the duration of the meal, though when Lahallia offered over the parcel of bread and cheese, Orphael absently took a bit of both, and when Orphael offered the flask, Lahallia maintained her practice of wiping the mouth off before sipping at it. Not to be rude, both knew, but to try and prevent any resurgence of Vision.

Today had already reached its quota of so-called 'fun'.

---SI--


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two: Social Skills

--SI--

Lahallia and Orphael's return to the city, and indeed to the New Sheoth Palace, occurred in huffy silence, the Altmer sweeping ahead with all the haughty dignity her race was known for, Orphael striding along behind her, bristling with an aura threatening creative deaths for those foolish enough to say _one single word_ to him. An argument sprung from Orphael raising a question about the Apocrypha, which resulted in Lahallia finally turning nasty and needling him about tough Mazken with allergies to something as stupid as Mania pollen.

In Orphael's defense, the part of the question he managed to utter was posed quite politely. However, Lahallia's snap at him was quite justified, since the question was meant to insinuate nasty things about the place she called home, leaving them both disgruntled and rigidly formal when – for the benefit of the door guards – they bid each other farewell.

Both of them hoping for the last time.

--SI--

Orphael swept through the halls of House Dementia to the Mazken Quarter, nestled with accessibility to both Sheogorath's Throne Room and the House itself. "Grakedrig…" He stopped short when he realized the helmeted, scowing Mazken female behind the desk was not Grakedrig Eylara, as he expected.

Nelrene smiled, a beautiful smile, but one Orphael associated with imminent trouble. "I'm so glad to see you've found some honey for your tongue."

Orphael bit down a cutting response. Nelrene was known for holding grudges, she would not have forgotten his subtle needling – all of which remained within the bounds of socially acceptable – and would do as he had known she eventually would: pay him back for it. Orphael threw down his highest cards available, in hopes of derailing Nelrene from coming up with any duties involving said tongue and, say, the floor or worse.

The news of the obelisks activating did not seem to perturb Nelrene so much as the fact the knights failed to kill Orphael. She breathed a sigh of relief when she finally elicited the critical facts from Orphael – that Lord Sheogorath's pet Altmer was present, that she was now reporting to that slug Thadon, and would be reporting to Syl soon.

Which put Nelrene in a bit of an awkward position, especially since she noticed that however unflattering Orphael was in his speech about the Agent, the fact remained he had made no true personal attacks. Classic Orphael in a funk, which eased Nelrene's ruffled feathers.

Could the Altmer truly be so infuriating? And wouldn't it be revenge served to perfection to force Orphael into a position where he would have to deal with that irritation every single day, and be unable to give full vent to the irritation, at risk of overstepping his bounds with regards to propriety when addressing one of Sheogorath's specially chosen agents?

"I knew so much already. Reports have come in from the Rock in your absence. You're to stay in Crucible, until I send for you," Nelrene declared. Even if Orphael caught the scent of something going on just below the surface of Dementia and its politics, he couldn't very well take Mania's side. Among Orphael's many failings, such treachery lay absolutely beyond his capacity.

"And do what? Udico specifically requested…"

"Your field work," Nelrene cut Orphael off in a businesslike tone, "was valuable only as a passing interest. It's been requisitioned by Udico, copies are being made and will be sent here as soon as possible. We will likely request a moment of the Agent's time, but until then you're to remain in Crucible, and keep your brain between your ears so you can find it when I need to ask you questions. Is that understood?"

Orphael resisted the urge to follow irritation's direction, bite his tongue out, and spit it on Nelrene's desk. "Certainly."

"And don't get under the Agent's feet. If she wants you, she'll ask. And if she asks, you will _comply_." Nelrene added, watching Orphael's dark complexion take on purple tones as he strove to keep his temper in check. The elf must take a real toll on his self-control, if he purpled in such a manner, so early on in this conversation. Usually it took much more work to sink in the claws so he could feel them.

Orphael bowed. The obviousness of Nelrene not having met the Altmer was never clearer than in this moment. It was certainly beneath the elf to _ask _for anything, the stuck up little…

…well, perhaps not 'little'.

"I highly doubt Lord Sheogorath's Agent will need anything from me – she already knows what I know." Before the conversation turned sour – which amplified Orphael's bad mood, at having tipped his hand so apparently obviously – it proved both insightful and rather pleasant. Avoiding the topic of the Apocrypha itself, the Altmer showed very few signs of hoarding knowledge for the purpose of keeping it secret, though she also had picked his brain as much as possible in return, constantly scribbling in her catalogue.

It took awhile before he'd noticed she had even summoned the book. Before she put it away, and before he brought up the Apocrypha in a fashion he felt stealthy and sneaky, trying to plant ideas in her head, he'd caught a glimpse of a page commenting how Mazken were more reasonable – so far – than Aureals.

Perhaps _that _was the trigger for the gracelessness. It was always good to know when mortals preferred Mazken company to that of Aureals.

"Then you'll stay in Crucible," Nelrene purred, hardly believing her fantastic luck today, that Orphael and his twisted personality were making so many mistakes, leaving so many comments open for exploitation, "and wait until _I_ need you."

Orphael's eyes flicked up in time to see Nelrene smiling at him, that beautiful smile promising pain. He smiled back, watching uncertainty creep into her green eyes. "You've already made it quite clear you need nothing _whatsoever_ from me, Grakedrig," he declared innocently, his expression, however, dared her to contradict herself.

A Grakella might get away with a minor pain fixation, but such indulgences—and the accompanying abuse of subordinates—were _unseemly_ in a Grakedrig.

Nelrene resisted the urge to purse her lips, as though tasting something sour. She tried to think of some cutting retort, but her luck apparently had run out.

When she did not speak Orphael bowed mockingly to her. "And as I see I can do no more here, I shall go, as per orders, and wait for the Agent to grace me with the pleasure of her company." Orphael declared in tones of mock obedience, again ruined by his trademark smirk.

The sound of an inkwell shattering on the closed door made Orphael smile genuinely, stifling a wicked chuckle. Nothing like irritating Nelrene to put one's mood right back where it belonged. And she was one of the very few who believed him, when he hinted that a mortal could hold any personal value past the fondness a guardian feels for his flock.

Such a thing, of course, was absolutely unfathomable.

--SI--

Lahallia seethed beneath the calm surface as she held the Chalice, waiting for Thadon to take it from her. At the moment she was about to see if she could bounce it from his head, to his throne, and then to the floor. She thought she had the angle for doing so figured out.

Thadon continued to prowl around Lahallia, as though scrutinizing her. Lahallia continued resisting the temptation to put the little Bosmer on his ear and kick him a few times. Blast that Mazken, and blast Thadon too! Anger brought color to Lahallia's cheeks, as well as vibrancy to the elf, making her seem less and less like a gray paper doll walking in the real world. Her hair hung less orderly behind her shoulders, beginning to tangle at the ends as it frizzed.

And she was _hungry_, she realized, ravenous, starving in a way she had not felt in ages, not even when arriving in Bruma, despite the bread and cheese luncheon. That, she mused, trying to block out Thadon's drivel, actually might have made this sudden hunger worse. Rather than take the edge off, the snack caused the real problem to explode.

"So, do you feel any different? Now that you've been through this experience, I mean," Thadon asked quietly, reappearing before Lahallia, attempting to tease the Chalice out of her hands.

Lahallia simply let it go, glad to have it off her hands, glad to finally put this disgusting chapter of her life behind her.

Thadon chuckled when Lahallia only pursed her lips, directing her gaze to some unfixed point over his head, the epitome of Altmer disdainful tolerance. "You know what it's like now..." he purred, "always wanting that next fix, hating it but _craving_ it at the same time, and hating yourself for all of it."

Lahallia was about to hate herself even more, if she gave in to impulse. Her temper, so long dormant, raged like a wildfire behind the impassive expression evidenced by the red spots appearing on her cheeks, and the way her eyebrows continued to knit towards one another. Not perfect indifference, but a laudable attempt at it.

"Ah, well. All over now. The Chalice helps, doesn't it? Indeed it does, and I could use some helping right now…"

Lahallia bowed automatically, gave him a perfunctory, 'Your Grace', then turned on her heel striding out of House Mania, skirting Sheogorath's audience chamber, then slipped into House Dementia. Leaning on the door, Lahallia's eyes adjusted to the gloomy light as relief settled in her stomach, the fear of Sheogorath wishing to question her ebbing.

Behind Syl's throne, a Mazken sidled into the room, taking up a post previously empty. The movement caught Lahallia's eye, but did not capture her attention. Before proceeding down to meet Syl, Lahallia brushed her robes, as if scattering crumbs from them, watching as they turned black, a color far better suited for this gloomy hall.

Duchess Syl was also a Bosmer, and the twitchiest of that race Lahallia ever saw. Flanked by two members of her household, on lower, much less ornate chairs than her own, Syl did not seem reassured by their presence. In fact Lahallia suspected they might even find themselves accorded such places of honor so Syl could keep an eye on them herself. The duchess' elaborate clothes gave the distinct impression of trying to make herself appear more forceful, more domineering.

Anyone who could read her body language would immediately realize exactly how insecure Syl actually was, and that she would likely react to the slightest provocation – real or imagined – violently.

Striding forward, Lahallia bowed perfunctorily, stopping well back from the dais upon which Syl's chair sat. The Redguard on Syl's left glanced at Syl, then back at Lahallia, however, the girl on Syl's right had the look of someone with much on her mind, her brow puckered, though she remained seated comfortably, no forced straight posture. Lahallia could not help thinking it might simply be in imitation of Syl – similarity did rest in their bearings. "Your Grace."

"Why do you approach the Duchess of Dementia? Do you seek death?" Syl's voice boomed through the high-ceilinged room.

"His Lordship, the Prince of Madness, ordered that I should come to you, and introduce myself, your grace." Lahallia answered composedly, straightening up. Paranoia did not indicate stupidity. Lahallia's stint in the Isles so far gave the impression that as Lord Sheogorath's Agent, she was accorded a certain amount of leeway. How much leeway remained vague at best, though as she had no plans to press her luck, the variable remained only a passing interest.

"Then you're safe for now." Syl rose to her feet, her attendants rising quickly as well. "Go," she snapped, though her beady Bosmer's eyes remained focused on Lahallia. "You stay."

Lahallia waited, finding this Bosmer as unpleasant as Thadon himself. They would certainly get along…well. No…certainly not! And yet, didn't it make sense? The Vision from near the Grakedrig? Thadon's veiled hints?

Once the hall was clear Syl strode to the bottom step of the dais upon which her throne stood, which still put the mer nowhere near Lahallia's eye level. "Speak to no one unless I instruct you to," Syl hissed softly, so much so Lahallia had to take a few careful steps forward. "None of them can be trusted. Do you hear me? _None_!" To emphasize her point, Syl glanced over at the Mazken standing passively around the room, blending in with the walls. "Surrounded by traitors and spies, I am. Always, _always_. They watch and they wait, eager to slip a knife into my spine when I'm not looking," Syl tittered, giving the periphery of the room another subtle glance.

"Why not simply kill them and have done?" Lahallia asked, as if merely pointing out a cutthroat option, than because she knew Syl had or would commit such an act eventually. As it stood, she suspected 'had' was the proper tense of the word.

Syl's eyes flickered with momentary suspicion, then she shook her head, as if unaware she was doing it. "That's _exactly_ what they'd be expecting," she murmured, chewing the inside of her cheek. "No, they'll have replacements lined up, and then there could be even more of them surrounding me. Like a hydra, growing fresh heads." Syl shuddered, then reached forward to grab Lahallia's shoulder.

Lahallia stepped back, to find Syl smiling.

"Clever Altmer…but I'm not the real enemy here. They'll know we spoke together, that no one else was permitted to attend the meeting. They'll _assume_ you're one of mine. They'll come after you too."

Clearly she did not know of Lahallia's Gift. Lahallia certainly felt no compulsion to tell Syl of it. "What do you wish of me, Your Grace?"

"You're going to help me. You're going to find them, force their hands. Put them to the screws." Syl's expression indicated eagerness for the thumbscrews.

Lahallia's attention began wandering away from what Syl wanted, to wondering why Demented citizens had such a fascination with pain. First Cutter, now Syl. Surely enjoyment of pain – their own or someone else's - was not the only symptom of the darker sides of insanity.

"As my Grand Inquisitor, expose the conspirators. They will be punished, I assure you. Find out who keeps secrets, and what they are. Speak with Herdir. He will help you. Do you understand what is required of you? If no one is found, you will be held responsible." Syl pointed dramatically.

Lahallia pursed her lips. Dealing with these idiot Bosmer today made her almost long for the rational if irritating presence of Orphael and his snide insinuations he knew more about the Apocrypha – never having set foot there – than she, who had lived there for so long. Bowing politely, Lahallia glanced about. "And where might I find Herdir?"

"Back that way – it's very easy. Must I think for you?" Syl asked sharply.

"Of course not, Your Grace." Lahallia swept off, climbing onto the raised ring about Syl's court, where the Mazken stood ever-watchful. If Syl found their presence upsetting, Lahallia found it oddly encouraging.

--SI--


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three: Conspiracy

--SI--

Seeing so many Mazken in one place quickly disabused Lahallia of the notion that all Mazken looked alike, for although they all bore dark skin, the shades of dark, and the range of eye colors between green and blue varied greatly.

"Greetings, Madwoman." The Mazken who had slipped into the audience chamber prior to Lahallia's formal presentation saluted promptly. "I can see you to Herdir, if you like," she offered. She also resisted the urge to twitch her nose – apparently Lahallia, like Orphael, failed to get all the Order dust off her clothes.

"Please," Lahallia agreed, somewhat relieved at not having to wander around like a halfwit. Enough of that and Syl would probably think she, Lahallia, was up to something.

"This way, if you would. I'd also like to apologize." The Mazken started down the corridor.

"For?" Lahallia blinked at the Mazken's back.

The Mazken snorted. "For the male who escorted you back to New Sheoth. Not the epitome of Mazken training."

"I found him quite helpful." _And quite iritating_, but Lahallia felt no need to add this.

"Really?" The other Mazken did not seem perturbed. "I was under the impression he needed to learn to watch his mouth."

"I take it you're his commanding officer." Lahallia dodged the question. The sense the Mazken was looking for a reason to come down on Orphael proved too obvious to ignore.

"I am Grakedrig Nelrene…you would call me the Captain of the Mazken Watch, I think," she added upon seeing Lahallia's somewhat blank expression.

"Then I shall speak freely. He must have told you of the trouble we encountered? About the obelisks, and what happens when they activate? Surely _that_ would be of interest to Pinnacle Rock, itself?"

"Indeed he did," Nelrene answered, surprised by Lahallia's mention of Pinnacle Rock. Of course, the mer could have tripped over mention of the place, but still, it hinted the elf knew more than she chose to mention. "They were appraised as quickly as possible. I'm certain Dementia will quickly be secured from this threat. I think it likely it will not be so terrible, as the time Mehrunes Dagon sent his Dremora raiding."

"Raiding? Why?" Lahallia asked, surprised by this.

Nelrene snorted, shrugging. "I have no idea. I expect his Dremora got bored and began wrecking their billets. They're not very bright, when it comes to downtime without orders. You'd never catch a Mazken acting like that."

"I imagine not," Lahallia agreed blandly.

"Here. Herdir?" Nelrene's voice took on a snap of command.

Lahallia followed the Mazken into the room, the sense of pervasive suffering thick upon the air, tainted as it was with the smell of blood and silent echoes of pained screams. The whole place pulsed with Vision triggers.

"Inquisitor?" Nelrene asked, though she made no move to touch the Seer, forewarned about this as she was.

Lahallia swallowed. "I'm all right."

"So, this is the new Grand Inquisitor, then?" Herdir asked, limping forward as though his knee pained him. The Imperial gave the distinct impression of crookedness, as though he walked somewhat hunched, though closer inspection indicated this was nothing in his bearing, only something in his manner.

"I am. Let's go," Lahallia, her voice somewhat husky, turned sharply, eager to get away from the room.

The corridor gave Lahallia some relief, allowing her to edge away from the room. Herdir watched the elf shifting as discreetly as possible away from the door with some puzzlement, but a sharp look from Nelrene immediately catalogued this behavior as none of his business.

"Ah, I do appreciate an assertive leader," Herdir declared pleasantly. "I look forward to working with you on this assignment. Lead the way, Grand Inquisitor!" He bowed as deeply as he could.

"Inquisitor?" Nelrene asked delicately, as Lahallia strode off, eager to be away from the room.

"Yes?" The Altmer stopped, closing her eyes.

"Good luck with your task."

Lahallia nodded grimly, though she had to admire the gall of the Mazken, if she was indeed involved. "I'm sure we'll chat again very soon."

--SI--

Bernice dropped the cup she was so assiduously wiping down, some of the color only recently returned to her face draining.

Orphael turned in his seat, his eyes narrowing as they left Lahallia to fall on the crooked little man bobbing along behind her. "What's he doing here?" Orphael growled, once they were neared the bar, his piercing blue eyes fixed on Herdir.

The torture-master drew himself up, but still gave the impression of hunched crookedness. "_I_ am on the business of Lady Syl…" Herdir began sharply.

"Yet you're on the leash of His Lordship's Agent. Which makes the question for her, not you. Hold your tongue." Orphael's eyes did not leave Herdir, who began to squirm under the scrutiny.

Lahallia swallowed as the Mazken continued to glower, radiating an indefinable sense of presence which made her feel trapped in a room with a very large creature ready to pounce. She had not expected to find Orphael sitting in Sickly Bernice's Taphouse with a drink in one hand and a scowl on his face.

"What's he doing here?" The question filled the room, despite the low tone in which it was uttered. Even Bernice looked a little surprised to hear so much distaste in the Mazken's voice.

Rather than answer the question, Lahallia walked over to the bar, pulled out a stool next to Orphael, then sat down as gracefully as she could. "Dementia brandy, please," she announced to Bernice, as though Orphael were not trying to intimidate her.

"I asked you what _that_," Orphael snarled softly, glowering at Lahallia's unconcerned profile, "was doing here?"

"If you don't like Herdir, don't take it out on me." Lahallia did not bother to look at Orphael when she said it, her tone icy. "Did you _really_ expect Lord Sheogorath to have me present myself to one court and not the other?" Lahallia demanded. "I assure you, I did not beg for such an escort. However, Syl's goodwill and cooperation is precarious at _best_." Raising her voice slightly so Herdir could hear her from the respectable distance he maintained, she continued. "Please wait outside, Herdir."

Getting rid of the loathsome little stooge would probably improve the mood of this room, and certainly would improve the taste of the brandy – the absence of the bile Herdir caused to rise in Lahallia's throat would certainly ruin the drink otherwise.

The torture-master wilted, skulking, but obeyed.

"Truth be told, I don't much like him either, or his methods, but as it stands…" Lahallia accepted the snifter and a napkin, choosing to wipe the rim of the glass herself first and foremost.

Bernice looked upset, but Orphael shook his head very, very slightly, understanding the reason behind the gesture. Lahallia's body language backed up her words: her pursed lips, knitted eyebrows, the way she continued to stare at the bar all hinted that whatever Syl had asked her to do was causing her some conflict of conscience.

"What does the Duchess want?" Orphael grunted. His mood, vastly improved since parting ways with Lahallia, made him more willing to reinstate a truce than to keep the arguments flying this way and that.

Lahallia sighed, leaning on the table, debating whether or not the Mazken had enough clout to throw around, thus rendering Herdir mostly obsolete. Despite planning to start in the palace, Lahallia's sense of orderliness demanded time to plan, not raving about like a lunatic, ordering Herdir to torture everyone she met. _That_ lacked dignity, and logic, two things most Apocrypha Attendants had…or learned. "I'm not sure I can tell you…I'm sorry."

Orphael shrugged. He could probably tease the information from her – it was not as if he were making insinuations against her home, in this case. He suspected she would prove less defensive if he avoided the Apocrypha as a topic. Lahallia had already proved her ability to mask her feelings was somewhat touch and go.

"So, what brings you here?" Lahallia asked, taking a long draught from the snifter. Perhaps she ought to have ordered something stronger?

"Change of command," Orphael grunted. Lahallia was still mortal, still a temporary resident of the Isles. The confidence Orphael usually had when getting information out of either remained intact – he simply needed to shift the circumstances and appeal to, perhaps not her better nature, but to her obvious disquieted sense of right and wrong. The dementia brand of insanity, after all, did not always include pleasure in watching or making others suffer. "Grakedrig Eylara died, so Grakella Nelrene took her place."

Lahallia's snifter stopped twirling. "I've met Nelrene. I get the impression she doesn't like you much."

Orphael snickered. "No, she doesn't. She seems to labor under the impression there's something _wrong_ with my personality. I can't imagine where she got that idea."

"I can't imagine either," Lahallia answered with quiet sarcasm, finishing her brandy in one long draw. The liquor never made Vision go away. Excessive amounts made the Visions come more easily to mind.

Orphael smiled as he leaned towards Lahallia's long, pointed ear, watching herself withdraw into her thoughts like a turtle in its shell. "Is that why you're here? Did she tell you to keep me out of her hair?" he whispered gently, as Bernice hovered silently nearby.

For all the hypochondriac held a soft spot for the Mazken, it had never occurred to her before in full force what he was, her mind always relegating him to some place between Dunmer and Dremora. However, more and more apparent with each passing second, he was truly neither, but a creature altogether different; incredibly good at teasing information loose from sealed lips, incredibly deft in his interrogations.

Which was what Orphael hoped Lahallia would pick up on, eschewing the torturer in favor of more refined methods of questioning.

The implications of the comment were not lost on Lahallia. She did not, however, like the oh-so-subtle manipulations in which she was getting entangled.

Turning to face Orphael, their noses almost touching, she looked him straight in the eye, giving the Mazken the uncomfortable feeling he was looking at something strange, wearing the Altmer's face like a mask, an impression assisted by the Altmer's mismatched eyes. "How did the last Grakedrig die? Knife to the back, wasn't it? The weapon never found? The killer never found?"

Orphael took the hint to heart, that the Altmer knew more of what was going on than she should. "Syl is known for boundless paranoia, and for acting upon it. The Grakedrig's absence is only temporary. She'll be back."

Something clicked into place, though perhaps not a piece for this puzzle. "And if someone wanted a Mazken out of the way…kept incapacitated and euphemistically called 'occupied'…how would they do it?"

Orphael resisted the urge to shiver at the question. Had anyone else said it, he'd have bristled, and demanded if it was some sort of threat. However, the glint in Lahallia's eyes, a glint he began in that moment to associate with Vision remembered, gave the impression of looking straight through him. "One Mazken would never give up another to _her_." Hebut his skin began tingling, as if with remembered pain.

Lahallia blinked, her mind curling up in knots. Surely irony did not have this sort of sense of humor…? "No, of course not," Lahallia breathed. "But what if, say…an Aureal were to do it? To whom would they send that poor Mazken?" The elf raised a hand, as if to touch Orphael's face in gentle sympathy, but stopped the gesture she never intended to complete, and using her own sanity back against Orphael. Surely arguing with or manipulating madpeople was one thing, arguing with or manipulating the sane something else.

Orphael answered himself before he realized fully what the Altmer was doing. "Relmyna Verenim." He realized Lahallia had just turned his own ploy upside down and used it to get answers herself. First thing, he cursed silently, then he had to give appreciation. He had, for a single moment, forgotten she was still perfectly sane, even though she had Dementia leanings. Anyone could see that.

Lahallia nodded.

"No one ever heard of any precedent for such a thing." Orphael murmured, anger palpable in the air around him, but not directed at Lahallia.

"So, it was you?" Lahallia's voice suddenly distant as she gazed into her empty glass.

Orphael nodded once. Had Udico not told him, he would not have known. Part of him wished he'd remained ignorant of that particular death. Thank madness he couldn't remember the events themselves.

"Why?"

Wondering how much Lahallia Saw of that encounter, and fighting the urge to redouble his efforts to filch the information form her, particularly now her mood had changed, Orphael shook his head. "I don't know. I suppose I'm too curious for my own good."

Lahallia's eyes fell onto the wooden surface of the bar. "I'm sorry." Lahallia remained both grateful she never saw the actual stint in that despairing dungeon, and certain Orphael _had _suffered while there.

"Why?"

"Did you not suffer?" Lahallia asked, surprised at mortal sympathy coming into question.

"You weren't there," Orphael said quietly, unsure of how much Lahallia Saw – though if she were half so genuinely sorry, he supposed she must have Seen much of it. "And I don't remember."

Lahallia's eyes bulged as she glanced over at the stony profile seated next to her. "You don't remember?" How could one forget? She knew simply by looking at Relmyna, through the Aureal's eyes that death was far preferable to falling into Relmyna's clutches.

"The Waters of Oblivion erode Mazken memory. We retain little past basic sense of purpose, facial recognition…little fragments of the last turn of the wheel." Orphael responded quietly.

"All Mazken memory?" Lahallia asked.

"Yes…" Orphael nodded. "Why? Does that mean something to you?" He asked, catching sight of Lahallia's stunned expression.

"What if the murder was less an act of paranoia…and more of a cover up?" Lahallia asked.

"The Mazken would not turn on Syl, not without proof of some crime – a serious one." Orphael shook his head. "She's not popular, but…"

"And what if there was proof?" Lahallia breathed. "What if there was a crime? Something drastic enough to warrant lethal intervention?"

"I'd say you'd spent too much time reading mysteries in that Apocrypha-crypt of yours." Orphael answered dryly, refusing to let Lahallia's soft musing tone draw him in – though it was difficult.

Lahallia ignored the slight on the Apocrypha, making a split second decision to gamble. "Well, then I won't try to convince you otherwise. I know a lost cause when I see one." Getting to her feet, she addressed Bernice. "May I rent a room here? I expect to be in the city for several nights."

Bernice jumped as the conversation suddenly expanded out of low whispered tones to include her. During the conversation she found herself backing further and further away from the Mazken and the Altmer, huddled together like plotting children.

Orphael finished his drink, determinedly not watching as Lahallia walked upstairs – probably to deposit her gear. The moment his drink was empty, he found his curiosity had eaten too far away at him. The leading commentary, the delicate hints…she _knew_ more than she told, and whatever she knew, he wanted to know as well. Especially with that toad Herdir. If the Imperial thought he might advance his position in Syl's court by somehow implicating Lahallia in the conspiracy - and taking care of the matter himself – he just might do it. Too much the type to pull wings off of flies, and _she _might just miss the little warning cues.

If she survived to complete whatever Lord Sheogorath actually wanted her to do, he, Orphael, would be very surprised indeed.

--SI--


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Four: Shuffle the Deck

--SI--

Orphael gaped at Lahallia, trying to decide whether she had finally succumbed to the inherent madness of the Isles, or if she was playing some sort of strange prank. Her explanation of what she knew, what she suspected, and her Visions supporting both took up the greater part of an hour, even without him interrupting her.

"You…" he stopped, not wanting to nettle her when he so desperately wanted her to make sense. No one made sense when spitting insults or hissing fumbled derision. The fact remained she was trying to chase a lead as ephemeral as a daydream. Not even Sheogorath would buy off on the 'I had a Vision, here's the culprit' method of accusation. If Sheogorath wouldn't accept it, Syl certainly wouldn't, not when an unscrupulous individual could so easily lie about Seeing things.

"I know that Vision does not count as admissible evidence, of course," Lahallia finished, peering out the grubby window of her room at the shadows moving below. "But it gives us a place to start." Yes, a place to start, in a city of who knew how many people, how many innocents. Innocents she had to sift through to find the guilty ones. Any sane person knew torture failed to work as often as it succeeded. Weak minds reacted to fear, or pain. Idealists – like a Mazken – did not. Not that they'd remember the torture, once they died and returned to the Waters.

No, what she needed was a starting off point. If she could just figure out what the first step actually was, the first step on the right path, she could unravel this, finding the trail of evidence leading her to Nelrene.

_But what if it doesn't end with Nelrene?_ Lahallia chewed pensively on her lower lip.

Well, if it did not end with Nelrene, Nelrene would only be a stepping stone on the path to answers. The plan did not change, she simply would have to pay attention to the little things thereafter. A great puzzle, a great and glorious puzzle. Lahallia squashed the hope the investigation would prove a diverting activity, far preferable to stumbling around in underground tunnels, drugged half out of her mind or crawling half back into it.

Orphael walked over to Lahallia's bed, flopped down on it, and put his face in his hands. Sensational. A perfect word for the situation, utterly, completely sensational. "You think Syl and Thadon…" The idea made him nauseous.

"I do. Nelrene does, I'm reasonably certain. The last Grakedrig was very certain, though now that she's _died_, 'was' becomes the operative word." Lahallia leaned on the windowsill, wondering what sort of oversight Sheogorath maintained in this realm. Most Daedric Princes liked to micromanage, to keep a tight rein on what went on in their realms. So why was Sheogorath any different?

Or was he?

"And we don't have time to wait and see if either one got sloppy," Orphael grunted, a combination of disgust and repulsion coiling like snakes around his stomach. The idea of the two Bosmer in their respective courts was bad enough. Put them together…ugh.

"I did _not_ need that mental image," Lahallia groaned, the full extent of what sloppy could entail was more than enough to make her wish she had not eaten breakfast.

"No, I didn't either, but misery loves company." Orphael glowered at Lahallia's profile.

Lahallia surprised Orphael by chuckling. Her smile did not faded as she turned to lean on the windowsill, fully facing him. "You're a Mazken – what do you think about all this?"

Orphael got to his feet, crossing his arms. Yes, the idea of Syl – particularly as Duchess of Dementia – consorting with the Duke of Mania did nothing to inspire unswerving loyalty. In fact, he agreed with Nelrene, for once. Certainly Syl should lose her post as Duchess. Mania and Dementia were never meant to coexist…or were they? After all, several residents of the Isles migrated back and forth between Bliss and Crucible. In Split the problem was extremely obvious, illustrated to the point of painful simplicity.

Mania, and Dementia, one or the other – one simply could not have both at the same time. Which meant Thadon and Syl's liaisons were out line. "I think it's a disgusting situation, and if you're planning to use Herdir…that's disgusting too." Not a proper answer for the question, but an answer all the same.

"I don't want to, you know." Lahallia massaged her temples. Watching intruders to the Isles die or go mad was one thing. Torturing those already mad was something else entirely, and something with which Lahallia took issue. Not the least because the residents of the Isles technically belonged to Sheogorath, and she could not imagine the Prince feeling too pleased if she abused them on Syl's orders.

Syl was, after all, not in charge.

Images of horrendous plaid clothing swimming before her eyes stiffened Lahallia's resolve to find happy a medium in which she could solve Syl's dilemma without causing Sheogorath to come up with punishments worse than that plaid.

Like cannibalistic clowns. "I would prefer not to have to – which is why I'm talking to you. Surely you can come up with something more…civilized." Lahallia continued to frown, but remained silent, letting Orphael have time to think, if he wanted it.

"Well, if it were _me_, I'd start in Syl's court, since that's where all this starts. One thing, though." Orphael lifted his eyes from the floor.

"Yes?" Lahallia pushed off the windowsill.

"How did Nelrene know what those two were doing?"

"_That_," Lahallia considered, "is an extremely good question. We shall have to ask her." Never mind the whole new plethora of incongruities this opened up. Surely no Mazken could betray their duke or duchess out of hand, or without Sheogorath somehow knowing. This was _his_ realm, everyone played by _his_ rules…

Lahallia shivered, wondering if she had not just answered all her own questions with this horribly vague answer. It answered the question of how, but not of why – though effectively, it rendered the question why meaningless. A mere mortal – or at least a wise one bent on survival - did not ask a Daedric Prince to justify himself, herself, or itself.

Orphael groaned as Lahallia strode past him, as if on a trip to the market for eggs. _Ask_ Nelrene? Lahallia obviously had no idea who she was dealing with, which was why Orphael hurried after her. Things would be so much easier if Nelrene acted, striking Syl down while the investigation was underway. No more Syl meant no more crime.

--SI--

Anya Herrick's palms were slippery with sweat, a headache of tension, fear and worry knotting inside her skull, making the world dim before her very eyes. They _knew_. They had to know. She thought everything might work out all right, once the Grand Inquisitor returned to Crucible's streets to chase down scapegoats for Syl's paranoia.

_But she came back_, and with a Mazken lackey in tow, no less, adding extra ominous malice to that Herdir usually represented. Obviously, the Dementia garrison saw fit to back the Inquisitor's efforts in rooting out the latest conspiracy. The first real one in quite a while.

Herdir, the Inquisitor and the Mazken – Anya shuddered, knowing too well what it felt like to sit under their watchful gazes morning, noon, and evening. A scene out of a bad dream played across her waking life, washing it over in colors of bruise blue and rotting black.

--SI--

"_This_ is your grand plan?" Lahallia's undertone did not mask her disbelief. Orphael's smile did nothing to reassure her, as they stood a short way away from Herdir, giving the appearance of two people deep in talk. "Just stand around and wait for something to happen?"

Herdir's sulk only added to this impression, the twisted little man giving off an aura of dejected disappointment.

"You seem to think Nelrene is simply going to sit back, twiddle her thumbs and let you catch her as soon as you are able." Orphael watched Anya Herrick cross the courtyard again. "She won't."

"She knows I know…" Nelrene was not stupid, after all. As far as Lahallia could tell, none of the Mazken were truly _stupid_.

"She knows you _suspect_. You can't _know_ until there's proof. Nelrene won't tip her hand when you have no solid evidence by panicking." Anya vanished through the doors to House Dementia.

No. Nelrene, like most in the Mazken hierarchy who found themselves in positions of authority, stayed calm when under scrutiny. She would never betray her plans just because one Altmer got a little too curious. Hence part of Orphael's increasing desire to keep an eye on Lahallia.

Agent of Sheogorath's or not, death was not the only way of incapacitating an investigation, merely a very permanent one.

Lahallia knew her skills did not lie in the directions of a personal investigator. She second guessed herself too much. "So what exactly is standing around here going to do?"

"We're looking for weak links. I believe I've found one," Orphael answered patiently. "Have you noticed who all has come and gone since we got here?"

"Nearly half the mortals in Syl's court. And two Mazken."

"Yes, one's a runner, the other is a member of the garrison. We've got half Cylarne back under our control." The information did nothing for their situation, though as far as Orphael was concerned it was good news indeed. He also held a creeping suspicion that if the tide at Cylarne did not swing to definite victory for one side or the other…

Orphael's eyes drifted to the empty Torch over the Sacellum Arden-Sul. The lack of flame burning brightly over the city worried him, and probably had the citizens of Crucible racing for the end of the world. Which this certainly was _not_.

"What's Cylarne?" Lahallia's voice cut through Orphael's preoccupation.

"Cylarne is contested ground, in northern Mania, and not the focus of the exercise at hand," Orphael responded automatically.

Lahallia's eyes narrowed at the rebuff. "So what…"

"Weak links. We're making people nervous. Nervous people make mistakes, and the next time Anya Herrick comes out that door, I want you to go talk to her. You be the sweet one," Orphael's face broke into a wicked grin, "I'll be less so."

"And Herdir?" Lahallia glanced back at the sulking torture master, who had evidently eavesdropped so far, for his face brightened hopefully at the sound of his name.

Orphael made a sucking sound with his tongue and teeth. "I don't think we'll need him to loosen her tongue."

Lahallia bit down a sharp retort, and a not so subtle insinuation. It was not as if she had a better plan, though she wished she did. So long out of her depth had her feeling distinctly out of sorts.

And her hair was _still_ tangling unmercifully, something she had not realized up until now, it had stopped doing.

"There. See how nervous she looks?" Orphael's eyes fixed upon Anya, who apparently noticed. Her pace slowed momentarily as she left House Dementia, then picked up again as she crossed the court, heading in the direction of the palace gate to Crucible.

"I'd feel nervous with a Mazken and an Inquisitor in the front court."

"Yes, but you wouldn't go attracting their attention, would you? You'd hunker down somewhere out of sight," Orphael predicted. "Go on."

Lahallia let Orphael nudge her in Anya's general direction. The woman did look twitchy, and from what Lahallia understood, Anya trended not to wander too far away from Syl most of the time.

--SI--

Nelrene watched from the Garrison Tower – which was not really a tower, merely located on an upper floor of the palace – as Anya Herrik, Sheogorath's Agent, that meddler Orphael and dear Herdir filed out of the Palace Courtyard. Fears of the Agent leaving Herdir behind relieved, Nelrene strode out of the Tower, back down to her quarters.

On the right track, the Agent might be, and Orphael certainly had her strings and was pulling them. An unforeseen variable. Nelrene knew Orphael and the Agent had interacted, but all indications were they could barely stand each other.

His presence only contributed to the appearance of innocence on her part. All she had to do was denounce whatever 'evidences' he turned up as part of his personal vendetta against her, and her word would carry. The only question remained whether Anya was still too afraid of the shadowy '_Higher Ups_' the contact would have mentioned, while trying to coerce the girl to reveal what she knew to the Agent.

Not that Anya actually knew anything. She was merely a mouse set to run for the inquisition to chase. A last-minute bit of brilliance, made jittery by the proximity of her getting involved and the sudden appearance of the Syl's latest inquisition. No, the Agent would eventually move on. Syl would eventually turn on Anya, as the contact would have pointed out. This latest inquisition would only prove it, possibly sealing the foolish woman's mouth shut.

Nelrene permitted herself a smile as she checked her weapons in their sheaths. And as soon as he could, dear little Herdir would run back to her, bearing gifts of information, of insight into how far along the inquisition progressed along the false trail. Depending on what he had to say, perhaps she could even find him a reward.

Something…special and possibly immediate.

Once Syl was gone, she would also have to find a safe little niche in which to keep Herdir. Few people enjoyed keeping a torture master on their staff, so he would find himself quickly out of favor. Perhaps – the thought made her nauseous, but still retained merit - Mistress Relmyna could use another assistant? Herdir would not find his stomach churning at the things going on in Relmyna's lair, and she need not worry about Mistress Relmyna casting greedy eyes on Herdir. Mistress Relmyna remained too wholly infatuated with Lord Sheogorath to notice another woman's plaything.

--SI--


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five: Traitors

--SI--

Anya Herrick thought she knew what panic felt like. It comprised quite a bit of her life, the states of panic or near panic. As part of the Court of Dementia, panic was as ever present as the paranoia of the Duchess, Syl quite accomplished at working others into a state of blind, frenzied panic.

She was wrong.

Her hands shook as she walked, trying not to move too fast, or too slow, trying not to glance back over her shoulder to where she could feel the inquisition following her. Every time she turned a corner she caught a glimpse of them, the blue eyed Mazken and the Altmer Grand Inquisitor. Breath came ragged, her throat taut with fear. _They knew_. The only explanation for those two—three, counting that toad Herdir—so doggedly pursuing her.

"Good afternoon."

Anya screamed as she turned a corner, walking smack into the Inquisitor herself. Obviously, the Altmer had broken away from the Mazken and the torture master in order to trap her like a rat. "G-good afternoon…" Anya's attempt to sound unconcerned failed spectacularly.

"It's good you did not make us chase you far."

Anya's spine prickled as the Mazken's voice drifted over her shoulder. She tried to turn, but large, warm hands took hold of her arms, preventing her from moving around, or trying to slip off.

"Now," Lahallia chided as Orphael assumed the role of bloodthirsty menacing Mazken, providing balance for her own reasonable, pain free arguments. "There's no need to manhandle Miss Herrick."

Anya's stomach writhed.

"Poor thing," Orphael purred, letting go of one of Anya's arms. "She's shaking like a leaf. Why would that be, I wonder?"

Anya's eyes darted here and there. Her face drained of color as she saw her contact duck behind a building, using the crooked street to his advantage. "Please…" Anya's voice came out barely a hoarse whisper. If she was seen…if he even _suspected_…

"There's no need to beg just yet." Orphael winked at Lahallia over Anya's shoulder, his tone darkly menacing.

"Orphael." Lahallia followed Anya's terrified glance over her own shoulder, but saw nothing. Waving her hand, detect life caused blossoms of life lights to haze into existence. One of which was close enough to eavesdrop.

"Please…not _here_…" Anya's mind churned frantically. The contact, who would certainly want an answer as to when she intended to kill Syl wouldn't reveal himself to the inquisition. The inquisition would certainly kill her if they thought she was withholding information, and only if the Inquisitor felt merciful, which Anya doubted.

Unable to crane her neck,Anya could not look at the Mazken, but she did not need to see him, to wonder what sort of twisted things _they _were into_._

"No, I suppose we shouldn't stand around in the middle of the street, blocking progress," Lahallia declared with feigned boredom. "If you'll let Miss Herrick walk."

Orphael let go of Anya's arms, but hovered so even if she did lose her head and try to run, she would not get far. Playing the villain certainly had its merits, namely the vague glint of unease whenever Lahallia caught his eye, hinting he assumed the role too well for her comfort.

"This way, I'm sure Bernice will let us take over her parlor for a little while." Lahallia could think of nowhere else they might go, where the chances of having someone eavesdrop were lower. She certainly did not want to cram all four of them in her room. At least the parlor or rather, the living room like space on the lower floor of the Taphouse some distance from the bar would let her see an eavesdropper before they got close enough to overhear anything.

Anya helplessly followed the Altmer back down the street towards Sickly Bernice's Taphouse. The trip passed in a blur of panic, her mind full of screaming white blankness which did not allow for coherent thought. Her torrent of terror did not ease, not even when Herdir arrived looking disgruntled as he carried a tray of three glasses and a bottle of Dementia wine.

"You look troubled, Miss Herrick." Lahallia poured generous measures into the three goblets, then handed them about. Herdir hovered near the edge of the conversation, looking put out, left out,and mutinous.

How was the Inquisitor supposed to get information out of this spineless jellyfish without his help? Reliable information did not simply spout from the lips of suspects.

"Do sit down." Lahallia waved at the chair Orphael pushed to face the sofa upon which Lahallia perched.

"I'd rather stand," Anya managed to articulate, her eyes riveting on the Inquisitor.

"If that is your preference." Lahallia settled comfortably on the sofa, making a show of sipping at her wine, though drinking none.

Anya stood like carved stone, except for the subtle shudders wracking her body. The epitome of a guilty conscience. "What…is this about?"

"I think you know," Orphael purred. "You're trembling, precious." He touched her shoulder, which caused Anya to shake even more.

"Orphael. Please." Lahallia's mild rebuke sounded like summer winds after winter's freezing chill.

Orphael gave Lahallia the same smile he'd given Anya when telling her there was no need to beg just yet. The Altmer swallowed, looking away from him. What fun, watching her squirm.

"You…suspect _me _in your…your investigations?" The attempt at sounding outraged, as Anya struggled to weigh the benefits of keeping her mouth shut as opposed to spilling her guts for the Inquisitor, failed. Her eyes kept drifting to Herdir, looking half-hopeful his talents might come into demand.

"Should I, Anya?" Lahallia set her goblet aside, fixing her mismatched eyes upon the woman, so close to breaking.

"I…" Anya's voice broke.

Orphael leaned forward over, seizing Anya's shoulder gently, in order to turn her to face Herdir. "If you don't want to tell the Inquisitor," he breathed in her ear, "she _will_ ask Herdir to join the conversation. Surely you don't want that."

"Let me go!" Anya broke away from Orphael with more force than the Mazken expected. However, she stumbled, tripping on her own skirts, landing awkwardly on the sofa beside Lahallia. Orphael slid, catlike, into the chair originally intended for Anya, the picture of intense scrutiny.

Lahallia wanted to roll her eyes. Clearly Orphael had pushed a little too hard in the few moments his words escaped even her hearing. How a self-proclaimed shepherd of the mad mortals in this realm could act so sinisterly was beyond her. Yet, she had to admit, there was something vaguely appealing as she watched him do it. Not that she would want him to menace _her_, but he did pull off the suave psychotic very well indeed.

The sort who would knife you in the back, even as he kissed away your cares.

"I didn't want to!" Anya squeaked, appealing to Lahallia. "I sw-swear!"

Lahallia managed to mellow her already calm expression. "Of course you didn't want to…and of course, you haven't done anything. Please, have some wine, it will steady your nerves."

Anya took the goblet Lahallia had refrained from offering her until now, the liquid sloshing violently in her shaking hands, forcing Anya to sip off a measure, or risk staining her dress. Her eyes kept flicking to the deranged Mazken sitting so still in the chair, eyeing her much as a well-fed cat might eye a bird.

"Orphael." Lahallia successfully resisted the urge to smile.

"Inquisitor?" The feigned-dutiful purr nearly broke Lahallia's passably serene mask. Surely, this elf could not survive on her own should she ever have to rely solely on subterfuge and misdirection.

"Go stand with Herdir." Lahallia did not look at Orphael, merely pretended to sip her wine again. Two could play this game, surely...

It was Orphael's turn to nearly lose his composure. Lahallia's streak of wicked humor cackled madly behind her placid expression as Orphael got up, only the slightest twist of the lips indicating how he would have liked to argue, before he strode off behind the sofa.

As he passed, he ran a hand across the back of Lahallia's neck.

Lahallia stiffened, but the press of Vision did not come, leaving her free to contend with the situation at hand…and how odd a gesture others might take for granted as carelessness felt, making the skin on her back rise in gooseflesh.

Orphael joined Herdir, just within earshot of Lahallia's interrogation.

"I am sorry about him. He's…enthusiastic in his work," Lahallia allowed, hoping Anya would read whatever she liked into the statement.

Anya nodded. "I imagine he's very skilled…if he's assisting your inqui…investigation," Anya corrected herself.

"I do so hate the word _inquisition_," Lahallia responded. "Now, what is it you wanted to tell me? Take your time, I'm in no hurry."

"If they see us…"

"Then lie, and say you said nothing," Lahallia prompted, "_t__hey _can only kill you once. I'm not in the business of killing people. The dead can't speak, if you know what I mean."

Anya took the threat for what it was: a way out. "I…I was…I don't _know _what's happening. Not for sure." When Lahallia merely listened Anya took a deep breath. Surely it was better to throw in with the Inquisitor. It would protect Syl, who protected Anya herself… "The Khajiit, Ma'zaddha, came to me. He said Syl needed to be removed, and I was supposed to help them…or else." Anya's voice dropped almost to a whisper.

Herdir shifted, though not quite restlessly, managing to turn his ear towards the conversation as the Altmer gentled out the whole story from Anya. He grit his teeth—Nelrene should have let him put the little twerp on the rack, make _sure _her tongue didn't, or couldn't, wag. Here she was, the perfect hidden dagger, baring her soul because she had no spine. Nelrene would need to know, and soon, particularly if the Seducer meant to contact Ma'zaddha to check on whether Anya was ready to strike.

Nelrene insisted time was of the essence, particularly with the Inquisitor running around. And the Mazken with her! Nelrene had not foreseen _that_. And he, serving as a blood hound, would help the mer sniff out the conspiracy...

Herdir took a deep breath. No, no, the inquisition would stop with Ma'zaddha. Nothing could touch Nelrene's blessed head. Nothing. Not clever, beautiful Nelrene, whose tastes ran so close to his own.

Orphael's eyes roved over to Herdir, as the little man seemed to hunch in on himself, a smile playing around thin lips, his eyes glassy, unfocused as with deep thought.

Anya might have proved an easy nut to crack, which made Orphael wonder, w_hy Anya_? Everyone knew how close she was to Syl, and while her position made stabbing Syl in the back a thing of convenience, surely Nelrene, and by extension her goons in this matter, knew Anya did not possess the fortitude to do such a thing.

The word scapegoat came to mind. A readily available person to take the brunt of Syl's wrath, the perfect person, so close, to appease Syl's paranoia for a time. Certainly, it would look good for Lahallia to find treachery so close to the throne…and yet the sheer convenience of it all. Success, lauds, a job well done all spread out like so much food at a feast.

It smacked of Mazken failings, Lahallia concluded as she offered to walk Anya back to the palace - under the pretense of impending torture, so as not to tip off any watchful eyes. _If _she stopped the investigation now, abandoned all logic and served up Anya, everything would pan out in such a way that Sheogorath would be pleased. The jobs concluded in a timely fashion, both courtiers happy, and she herself having supposedly learned a thing or two. He would not care about guilt or innocence, as long as _his _orders were carried out before he got tired of waiting.

Nelrene would not have interfered with the Agent's mission, and would be poised to continue working towards the end goals he desired: Syl's death. Everyone won, Lord Sheogorath would be pleased. The end all, break all result of utmost importance.

_Lord Sheogorath would be pleased_.

"Bring her." Lahallia's words carried cold weight, which surprised Orphael, as did the emotionless, calculating look plastered across the Altmer's face. Apparently Nelrene expected her to go for the easy out. Perhaps at one point she might have done just that, to get the job over with. However, Nelrene had unwittingly placed before Lahallia that rarest, most enjoyable pastime.

Unraveling a puzzle.

How would the Mazken react, once it became apparent the investigation intended to continue up the chain of treachery? Had she ever experienced the fear of a rabbit who knows the hounds are closing in? How would she react to _that_?

--SI--

Herdir's stomach dropped like a stone when he realized he had no chance of slipping away from Lahallia and Orphael to warn Nelrene about the persistence of this inquisitor, how Anya's will had melted like butter before even the thumbscrews came out.

Lahallia kept him and Orphael close at hand for the rest of the day, lurking within the palace for no reason he could guess. Keeping meticulously out of sight of the rest of the conspiracy. Part of him worried the Altmer might know, know he intended to report everything she said or did to Nelrene, so the Seducer could change plans accordingly, could stay one step ahead.

No, surely the Altmer was in the dark, there. Otherwise she could have let that crony of hers do something dreadful.

Trying to reassure himself failed, as he tended his equipment in the torture chamber, while Lahallia and Orphael rested and prowled alternately. The Seer obviously disliked staying in the torture chamber, but apparently could think of no other place to wait, while Anya was supposedly tortured for a confession.

Returning to tending the gears on the rack, Herdir wondered whether or not he would ever find Anya Herrick on it. Probably not. Even less a chance…he glanced back at the Altmer, now in quiet talk with the Mazken. Tall as she was, he wondered how _she _would stretch, writhe and struggle as the inexorable pull added a few more inches to her.

Nelrene had done it, once. But now, Herdir returned to applying liberal amounts of elbow grease to his precious contraption, now the Mazken gave _lessons_. And she was so very good at it, so clever…

--SI--


	26. Chapter 26

Author's Note: Sorry for the delays (past and future). I have _not_ abandoned this, it's just real life taking precedence.

Chapter Twenty-Six: Breaks

--SI--

Lahallia sat on her bed in Sickly Bernice's Taphouse, while Herdir sulked in a corner. The stooge colored the atmosphere of the room as surely as the moisture of the late evening storm crept in, bringing the smells of dingy, rain washed streets. Truly, he must find it galling to not participate in the mission to which he was assigned. Lahallia felt no pity for him, much preferring heading this investigation with finesse. At least then the inhabitants would not hate her, should she need to interact with them at some point in the future.

"You're quite certain?" Her gaze travelled over to the window, which Orphael closed, blocking the conversation and the evening air out.

Orphael nodded before giving Lahallia his attention, or most of it. "Very. They meet late most nights, especially over the last few."

"Who are _they_?" sneered Herdir from his corner, hating both the Altmer and the Mazken. Without the rain he felt restless, the precipitation, however, brought downright edginess.

Orphael cast a supremely distasteful glance at the twisted little Imperial. Yes, he must feel frustrated at his lack of usefulness, but it did not account for why he was so twitchy. The Mazken didn't like it, though he liked the looks Herdir occasionally tossed Lahallia's way even less. Unwilling to take Herdir to task over any ideas the man might have about introducing the Seer to any of the implements in Syl's torture chamber while Lahallia was in earshot, Orphael put it on his list of things to do. Best Herdir know someone here knew what he was thinking. "_They_ are Ma'zaddha the Khajiit, and Grakedrig Nelrene. Haven't you been listening?" Orphael answered calmly, though with a hint of distaste. "It stands to reason they'll meet again tonight, particularly since no one is sure whether we got to Anya or not."

Herdir's stomach dropped straight to the soles of his feet. How had they discovered Nelrene's involvement? Her hand was supposed to remain undetectable, using the other conspirator as a cover…

Damn the Seer's Visions - he could think of no other explanation. Nelrene needed to know, and soon.

"They'll assume we have. I would." Lahallia got to her feet, looking from Orphael to Herdir. Like Orphael, she had not missed the looks Herdir was giving her, though unlike Orphael she did not concern herself with them. As long as all he did was look she had no complaint. She did not doubt her ability to deal with Herdir should trouble arise. From a broken mind like his, Lahallia expected musing about causing pain in others, particularly others he did not like. Clearly she found her way onto the list. "How late?"

"Sometime while it's dark. You know day and night aren't exactly consistent around here." Orphael's gaze wandered out the rain spattered window.

Madgod's realm, Madgod's rules, and it occurred to Lahallia she no longer cared how light or dark it was outside, so much as when she was awake, and when others were awake. The need for rest remained unaffected by strange - and often abbreviated - times for day and night. "In that case..." She pulled her cloak from its peg on the wall, swirling it around herself.

Orphael started for the door, giving Herdir a jerk of the chin, indicating he should move as well.

"No." Lahallia strode to the door ahead of both men, glancing back before turning the handle to let herself out. "You stay here."

"What?" Her words caught Orphael flat-footed.

"I said stay here," Lahallia clarified with patience she did not really feel. "I'm not going to give away the game by taking both of you." Not the least because Herdir gave the impression of having no skill at sneaking. At least _she_ could magically hide herself. "It's easier to hide one person than three." Especially with what she had in mind, favoring detect life spells as she did.

Herdir jumped at the opportunity to get away from scrutiny. This early and he might yet be able to warn Nelrene. "Well, if you're going to continue not needing me I should like…"

"You will stay here as well." Lahallia's tone brooked no argument. "I may yet find a use for you, so I'd like you to stay where I can find you. If you please." The pleasantry remained perfunctory, leaving no one in any doubt she did not expect to, but simply wished for some form of convenience.

Orphael repressed a smirk. If Lahallia had not stopped Herdir leaving, he certainly would have. Something rubbed him wrong about the way the Imperial jumped at the excuse to get _away_ from them, when previously he acted with all hope that Lahallia would call upon his not so delicate touch for interrogations. Perhaps he was simply bored, but a Mazken knew enough not to take things at face value, without looking for deeper meaning – and treachery – first.

"So stay here, and don't kill each other." Orphael blinked – surely she wasn't actually _joking_. The smile hovering faintly around her mouth, like the lingering taste of fine Dementia brandy indicated a slow creep of real humor. "I'll be back when I know something." Lahallia shut the door behind herself.

Herdir swore softly, before flinging himself into a chair, growling sourly.

So, the Attendant _was_ sloughing off the Apocrypha's influence. Or perhaps she simply found herself comfortable, more or less, in present company. "Have you something else demanding your precious time?" Orphael asked, returning to the window, opening the catch again to let in some fresh air. He caught sight of Lahallia heading out of the Taphouse and up the muddy street before she vanished into thin air.

Herdir's eyes burned like coals, aimed at the Mazken's back. His hand drifted to a pocket in his trousers, touching the neatly coiled garrote within. So easy to dispatch the Mazken…if _she_ wanted him back, she would simply need to get word to Pinnacle Rock. They would not refuse such a request from Sheogorath's Agent, and the Mazken would come back, be none the wiser…and he'd certainly cause less trouble, with all suspicions wiped from his mind like so much dust.

Orphael turned sharply, his eyes drawn immediately to the hand by Herdir's pocket. "Don't even think about it, Mortal." Really, if Herdir thought he could sneak up on and kill a Mazken, Herdir was crazier than Orphael ever gave him credit. The most basic powers of perception screamed to keep one eye on Herdir, or at least, an ear open when he was in the room. Even the Attendant, who should have shown a naïve streak a mile wide – and thankfully had defied this expectation – knew enough to keep an eye on the Imperial, if Orphael wasn't.

Herdir blanched.

"That's right. We _know_ how you think." Orphael walked over to the table upon which Lahallia left her catalogue, flipping the book open, watching as the scrawl inside seemed to shiver for a moment before his eyes, then appeared completely readable, whereas a moment before it was not. Not the most interesting material to pretend read, but leaning on the table allowed him to put his back to a corner. It was certainly more interesting than harassing Herdir.

_We know what you think_. Well, it was not hard to divine what a murderous twerp like that had on his mind: pain. Preferably someone else's, but maybe he was more twisted than he let on. Herdir and Nelrene should really…

The catalogue in Orphael's hands lowered, his gaze unfocused as his mind began to work doubly fast. Surely not. Eyebrows knitting together, Orphael regarded Herdir from beneath them. Suddenly, the Imperial's skittishness made sense, his recent eagerness to get away from the inquisition, to find himself on his own all fell into place.

Well, well, well. Lahallia would like to know about this duplicity and possibility of treachery. Even if it turned out he had followed the wrong track of logic – Orphael did not make the mistake of thinking his logic infallible – he could needle Nelrene about it later, should opportunity arise.

--SI--

Drizzle made the dreary streets of Crucible soggy, causing the puddles of foulness to overrun their usual bounds, adding slick sludge to the soupy mud. The rain beating down as the evening wore on plastered Lahallia's hair flat against her skull, even through the hood of her cloak, tangling the ends to the point she dreaded having to cut them off.

Her hair had not given her so much trouble since…she could not remember when.

Then again, she blew water from her lips, squinting through the blue-wash of a nighteye spell, the Apocrypha was not known for erratic weather.

Vanity aside, the chill of Crucible – not to mention the smell – was starting to get to her. As she waited atop her vantage point, plans for a hot soak with equally hot tea – or perhaps something stronger, but no less warming – took shape.

If anyone took the precaution of looking around, even with a detect life spell, the likelihood remained low that they would see Lahallia, perched quite a few feet above the 'the usual meeting place' Orphael indicated after his investigations. Stretched belly down on the roof, Lahallia's confidence her life-light would go unnoticed remained high. People simply did not look _up_ when looking for eavesdroppers.

In this case, eaves-dropping was almost a literal state of being. Getting onto the roof required magical assistance, as would getting back down. However, unable to come up with anything better, where she felt the changes of discovery were low, the roof it was. She could not hear, perhaps, anything going down on street level, but she could see just fine.

Right now, all she needed was to see two people slinking about after dark. She would let guilty conscience and an attempt at imitating Orphael's rather sadistic performance earlier do the rest. Otherwise, she might have to invite the real thing to join the discussion.

Lahallia could admit to liking Orphael, but the fact remained she still retained the Attendant's mindset that her projects were _her_ projects, and not something shared by a group. Quite apart from which, he had so far proved extremely amicable, which made her think he was preparing some comment to rile her up, lest he find himself rather well-liked by a dedicated Attendant.

Sheogorath forbid he ever become friends with one.

Lahallia's mouth twisted into a smile at the inanity of the thoughts, a smile which vanished within moments as a Khajiit slipped into the back alley her rooftop vantage point overlooked, moving tentatively in the mud. Almost directly beneath her eyes, he stopped, waiting.

Her skin prickled as with warmth as invisibility set back in, the need for precaution making her careful. The Khajiit's voice reached her, even if the words did not, worried with a hint of something similar to barely controlled fear.

--SI--

Ma'zaddha shivered as rainwater crept into his fur, making him feel twice as heavy as he usually did. The sound of invisible sloshing feet gave him a few seconds' warning before Nelrene appeared from the gathered gloom, looking nothing short of bad tempered. Water coursed down her dark skin in glistening rivulets, as she waved a hand, a murky green magelight appearing above her palm.

"Well?" Nelrene pinned the Khajiit with her keen eyes.

"Bad news."

"I saw Anya Herrick brought in." Nelrene shook her head. The lack of screams and shouts indicated nothing too terrible had befallen the scapegoat, which accounted for Nelrene's poor mood. That and Herdir's continued silence. Surely he would find a way to slip away from the others if something genuinely went wrong. "It doesn't matter. Find out what she told them. If she held her silence, see she does _it_ soon."

"And if she didn't?" Ma'zaddha asked.

Nelrene cast a look about the alleyway, detect life suddenly misting her eyes. Nothing indicated the presence of eavesdroppers. "It doesn't matter. She's in easy reach." Nelrene wiped rain from her face, flinging it carelessly to the ground. "Just to be safe…make sure our mutual friend is ready to go into action, should Herrick fail. The inquisition is still chasing their tails, but they will not stay distracted indefinitely."

The Khajiit nodded quickly, eager to affirm his willingness to follow orders.

"Do it quickly." Nelrene glanced about again, then vanished, swallowed by the night, her magelight going out as the invisibility spell took hold.

--SI--

Nelrene's footsteps remained visible for some distance, Ma'zaddha watching her go. Lahallia cautiously shifted to a sitting position before slipping off the roof, the levitation spell catching her midair. Lahallia waited until Nelrene was out of earshot before dropping herself in the mud – almost losing balance as it oozed to accommodate her feet.

Ma'zaddha nearly shrieked when he turned around to find the Grand Inquisitor standing several feet away from him. "Y-you…"

"Don't be coy." Lahallia's tone cut softly through the night. "I heard you, I heard Nelrene, I know what this is about." She did not light a magelight, nor did she renew her nighteye spell. She did, however, pull magicka into her fist, so the air hummed, the spell at the ready. "So you can talk to me, and save yourself a great deal of pain and suffering…or you can talk to Herdir, and I get to listen to you scream yourself hoarse. Or," Lahallia added on a flight of inspiration, "I'll let my Mazken have you. Then you'll wish you knew more. Infinitely more."

In the blue shades of Khajiiti night vision, Lahallia's smile took on sinister tones as she played upon the Khajiit's fear of and shock at sudden discovery. "What do you want?"

"I want names, obviously. Evidence. And you will be watched. Any hint of duplicity, any attempt to warn your Mazken friend there," Lahallia motioned in the direction Nelrene had vanished, "and we'll see how Lady Syl feels about your plans. Believe me, Ma'zaddha, I could make this stick to you very easily."

"Then why don't you?" The words left Ma'zaddha's lips before he could stop them.

Lahallia beamed. "Because I want to make the right sort of impression. Pulling this little bit of foolishness up by the roots would certainly do that. But if you don't want the immunity that comes with working with me, I'll quite understand."

As Ma'zaddha nodded mutely, he wondered if he had not just met a bigger devil than the one he usually worked with. "I'll have what you want by tomorrow, midnight," he answered. The Inquisitor didn't know anything, after all...

"Midnight then. Don't disappoint me." Lahallia turned to walk away, feeling apprehensive. Casting a spell of invisibility around herself, she heard Ma'zaddha groan.

--SI--


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Bodies

--SI--

"And you didn't hear a word they actually said?" Orphael did not succeed in masking his disappointment.

"No, I didn't." Stepping out from behind the sheet of opaque ice she had conjured, so she could change into dry clothes while giving her report of the evening's happenings, Lahallia waved a hand so it evaporated with a hiss. Changing while Herdir and Orphael were in the room made her uncomfortable, but the privacy of the ice and the warmth of her mercifully sky blue rather than plaid clothes made up for it.

A flicker of motion caught her eye. Frowning at her sleeve, Lahallia's eyes widened as she watched great, fluffy clouds float lazily across the blue fabric. "Orphael?"

"Yes?" Orphael eyed Lahallia innocently as she gazed at the scudding clouds now gracing her Attendant's travelling clothes. Really, her expression was priceless.

"Did you do something to my clothes?" Her eyebrows puckered as she tried to wrap her mind around the concept of moving clouds on a textile background.

"I made them not plaid. It was ghastly," Orphael answered, struggling to keep a straight face. To his surprise, Lahallia smiled when she looked up.

"Well, I'm sure His Lordship can't complain about these." True – the clothes were no longer the so abhorred soft gray.

"Don't be – he might decide to feel contrary. But he likes clouds."

"And clowns." Lahallia nodded. Her bemused expression vanished. "What utter rubbish. I can't believe I just said that…" She seemed to say more and more of this sort of nonsense as time went on. Perhaps it was someone she could name rubbing off on her.

Orphael himself did not snicker, but it took real effort, as did avoiding the beady-eyed, suspicious look Lahallia shot him. "So, we wait?"

"He has until midnight…though how he intends to keep track…" Lahallia shook her head. She could not remember seeing any clocks in this realm, though the residents gave impressions of an implicit understanding of 'time' and the passage by hour thereof.

"It's something you learn," Orphael shrugged. "Just be patient."

Lahallia squished a retort of not wanting to show patience, but wanting to go back to the Apocrypha.

Home, she corrected herself.

Orphael saw the argument on her face, even though she did not say any of it aloud. "You look good in blue."

Lahallia blinked, then shrugged, unsure how to respond to this. Her eyes swept the room, resulting in her mouth falling open as she found herself staring at a vacant corner which should not have been empty. "Where's Herdir?"

Yes, she usually ignored him, tried to imagine him into the scenery, so unpleasant did she find his presence. But to actually make someone disappear required focus and magicka, and one generally needed to see a person before one could make them vanish.

And even then, it was only an invisibility spell.

Orphael turned sharply, his eyes lighting in the corner behind his shoulder, where Herdir had certainly stood when Lahallia stepped behind her screen of ice to change, then swore. "The little…"

Rage at his own stupidity, for letting the scope of his situational awareness become so narrow, especially when he _knew_ Herdir was a stooge boiled glutinously.

Lahallia watched Orphael storm out of the room, somewhat surprised by the vehemence of his exit. She did not have to wait long for Orphael to come storming back up, looking almost murderous. "There's something you need to know about Herdir."

Lahallia's heart sank. Surely this boded badly for the investigation. "Talk as we walk."

--SI--

Lahallia stared at the scene. Despite having made all haste – and having to find out which house was actually Ma'zaddha's, the Khajiit lay dead on the floor, blood pooling darkly beneath him, and dripping slowly from walls and furniture.

Lahallia folded her arms close to her body as if trying to protect herself from the scene. The smell of blood curled thickly into her nostrils as if trying to fill her skull as well. "How did she get here before us?"

Orphael did not answer. The simple fact he had not caught up with Herdir on the street indicated _something _was amiss. When something was amiss like _this_, it behooved a Mazken not to ask too many questions, and certainly not to question any logic that might or might not exist. Kneeling beside the body, rifling through the clothes, he made a show of looking for something, anything.

"You could have just used Herdir to torture confessions, crude as it is," Orphael growled, for want of anything better.

Lahallia resisted the urge to spit back spitefully – hadn't _he _indicated such a thing should not be considered? "Changed your mind, have you?" Of all the things Lahallia had learned to accept – the strange day and night rotations, the room where Haskill interviewed her – she could not accept word of mouth as proof.

Nelrene could easily say it was a lie, told by her mortal detractors. No fault of the Inquisition, of course, but certainly insulting to Lord Sheogorath's most blah blah blah.

Orphael, lips pursed at the verbal slap, stood up. "There's nothing here. Dead end."

Lahallia looked around the room. In the shock of finding her informant dead, she had noticed without noticing the disorder. Yes, Ma'zaddha had put up a fight and yet...

"Bit of a mess in here, isn't it?"

Orphael snorted. "If you want to continue playing detective, fine. But I recommend you start planning how you're going to give Syl a traitor so she doesn't just have you fill the role_." _

"I'm Lord Sheogorath agent..."

"Do you honestly think Herdir cares about that? If _I_ were Nelrene, I would find a way to put you out of commission. Without doing it myself."

Lahallia did not shiver, but she would have liked to. The words were cold, but the tone was more fitted to a proposition. "If you don't like it, no one's forcing you to stay."

"Like and not like have nothing to do with it. Lord Sheogorath wants you to complete a task for Syl, Syl wants you to find traitors, and _you_ are still bumbling around, relying on your Apocryphic mundane..."

"It's what I know!" Lahallia finally shouted. She wanted to smack him, but knew such things would not aid her here.

Orphael was about to shout back, then leave, when Lahallia's head snapped towards a corner of the room. Raising a finger for silence her expression lost the red tinge of anger, her mouth moving slowly, as if reasoning with herself.

"Why kill Ma'zaddha...unless he had proof...?" Lahallia breathed.

Orphael rolled his eyes, then buried them in his hand.

"No, wait..." Lahallia replied to Orphael's nonverbal response. "You said...if she wanted to, she'd find a way to put me out of commission...that she can hide behind her status, and lie about Ma'zaddha's accusations."

Orphael sighed. "If you keep getting angry, you're going to boil your brain inside your head. It's making you delusional."

The Mazken and Aureals alone represented solid thinking, logic, in the Realm of Madness – Lahallia had heard it over and over again. She'd seen it for herself: Orphael showed certain relatively methodical tendencies.

Like how he got her into a hissing, spitting temper and then _quit _before she reacted with violence or magicka.

The only reason to kill Ma'zaddha, someone from whom Nelrene was perfectly safe, was because there was something else...something _hidden_.

Literally hidden, that would explain why the room was in such disorder, a theory supported if the rest of the house showed similar signs of a search. Turning, Lahallia strode upstairs, leaving Orphael quite alone.

AS soon as she touched the doorknob, to open the door at the top of the stairs, she wished she'd brought him along. She took a sharp breath, white lights popping behind her eyes, a scream rose up inside her head, _not here not here not _here_!_

Orphael heard a squeak from the top of the stairs, then a thud, something heavy.

A body hitting the ground.

He found her on the floor as if struggling to breathe, before a door she had not opened. Her eyes seemed over-bright in her face, as if something inside her skull gleamed, sending light through them.

Calmly he knelt, cradling her neck in the crook of his elbow as Lahallia twitched, apparently struggling to push back the tide of Vision. The niggling sense that perhaps the panic people might feel, if something like one of these 'fits' happened unexpectedly, made the fits worse poked and prodded unexpectedly at the back of his mind.

As the thought crossed his mind, some of his irritation with her softened. Not enough for him to feel painfully sympathetic, but certainly enough to want to spare her some of the discomfort she was currently experiencing. To shorten the duration, if he could.

"Don't fight it," Orphael advised, keeping his tone calm. "The sooner you let it start, the sooner it stops." Which was probably true.

Lahallia tried to protest, but her eyes were rolling, the muscles behind them screaming in pain. What did a Mazken know about the Sight? _You couldn't stop it_, not when it welled up like this, a massive wave rising out of shallow waters, improbably, unexpectedly, all-engulfing...

Orphael's other hand settled across her collarbones, impossibly heavy, warm even through her clothes.

Lahallia's breath jerked and shuddered for a moment, until the calming spell Orphael wielded seeped into her skin. Lahallia's lids ceased to flutter, half-closed eyes staring into nothing, her lips slightly parted as if shocked. For a moment everything about her gave her the appearance of a lost spirit—an irony for an Apocrypha attendant. Every so often she shook and shuddered, as if trying to stiffen and writhe, but the spell remained strong, keeping her muscles limp as noodles.

"What do you See?" He did not know whether she could answer him, but felt he at least ought to try. Quite aside from which, he was curious. He could feel no swirl of magicka around her, nothing to indicate use of this bizarre power.

For a moment Lahallia's mouth worked soundlessly, then she gave another wispy exhale. When she spoke, her voice was neither harsh, nor strained, nor working around tense vocal cords. "_Springtime brings new life and new beginnings…the herald of the new year. Look to the White Tower, for the sun will soon rise again. The Sword and __Shield will take up new arms, and as springtime blooms…so shall the Empire…" _Lahallia began to tremble again, her voice still barely above a whisper, as though the words were not meant for the ears of any mortal man.

Orphael took a chance. "Lahallia, the Isles…"

She interrupted, though as if she had not heard him. "_Greymarch comes_."

"Yes, we know. The Isles, the conspiracy…" Too late.

Lahallia cleared her throat, blinking as she came back to herself. "Ugh." Sitting up, she rubbed her neck, the usual disorientation clearing slowly, like a cloud of midges departing in twos and threes. "Ugh…" she repeated, looking over at Orphael kneeling nearby, his features furrowed with a mix of puzzlement, curiosity, and disappointment.

"Lahallia…"

Lahallia's eyes drifted upward, surprised by the fact he no longer seemed irritated with her. "Thank you."

Which made Orphael feel awkward. "What...was your big inspiration back there?" he asked, without looking at the mer.

"I need to see the rest of the house, if it's a mess."

Orphael got up, opened the door and peered into the room. "it's wrecked...lock on here is broken," he added, surprised.

"Hmm. Do you see a statue of Sheogorath? Or was there one downstairs?" She made to get up, bracing herself against the wall, but failed.

Orphael entered the room, Lahallia craning to watch him.

Yes, there was a bust of Sheogorath, sitting quiescently undisturbed in a small niche.

Lahallia manged to get her feet under her, mercifully her body didn't ache as it usually did. She shuffled after Orphael, who lifted the bust from its plinth.

A silver, heavily ornamented dagger fell out of a hollow within the statue, then slid off the table onto the floor where it glinted innocently. "The last place any Mazken would look." Orphael could not quite believe the simplicity of it—or Nelrene's stupidity. Why leave her dagger simply lying around...

...it quickly became another of those questions Mazken should not ask.

Lahallia joined Orphael, leaning over to pick it up. She overbalanced, her disorientation surged, and she hit the floor in an ungainly heap.

"Graceful to the last. How do you survive in a world where everything seems to make you See?" Orphael demanded, though not harshly, as he retrieved the dagger and assisted her to her feet, mindless of setting off another bout of Visions.

She gave him a baleful look, her lips pursing into a pout. The Vision pressed against her mind, but did not rise up to overwhelm her. She gently tugged her arm free. "There is a _reason_ I decided to take up residence within the Apocrypha. It's…easier to keep the Visions at bay, there. Fewer triggers."

"And is it worth the price you pay?" Orphael asked delicately.

"I am not having this conversation with you again. If you find this aspect of my life so offensive, you can leave." She jerked the dagger from his hand.

Orphael did not let her sudden flare of anger unnerve him, wondering if she got so riled so quickly because she knew, deep down, something was not right with her choice of residence. "It was a simple question – why so touchy?"

Lahallia's cheeks turned red, then she turned on her heel. "This is enough to incriminate Nelrene."

"I would think so," Orphael kept his tone carefully neutral.

"Then let's go."

"Of course, Inquisitor." Orphael repressed a chuckle as Lahallia, back straight and chin held defiantly high, stalked out of the house. Really, it got so much easier to get her wound up as time went on – and that was very encouraging.

--SI--


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Closure

--SI--

Nelrene could not concentrate. It showed when she finally let Herdir off the rack. He winced as he moved, unusual in and of itself. Normally, Nelrene had a very keen perception of when strain became pain, and not something to add to the experience.

She had noticed the problem hours ago, when Herdir had come tearing up to her, moving as if the bloodlusting wolves of Hircine were chasing him down, to tell her that Orphael – that meddler – was guiding the Inquisitor along. Then she noticed an impossibility: the short sword, the silver ceremonial short sword every Mazken guard carried by right and by duty was _gone_.

Gone, and she did not know where it was, when she'd lost it, or even how she had lost it. Cold fear gripped her as she set off to deal with Ma'zaddha, not knowing what else she could do, but to cover her tracks. More than that, she shuddered to think of the vanishing blade…things routinely rearranged themselves within the Isles to fit His Lordship's whims and fancies, but never…never never had she heard of something so personal vanishing without a trace.

Which could only mean he was angry. There was no other explanation. She had somehow failed him, or skewed his plans for the Altmer. She might have rammed the sword into her own stomach when she found it, _if_ she'd found it. But no, nothing in the whole of Ma'zaddha's home sheltered the missing blade.

Which now left her cold, feeling violent, and desperate.

Hence why she'd worked Herdir so hard, once she had him stretched out on the rack.

"You're worried, Grakedrig?" Herdir asked, still wincing as he straightened his clothes. It felt as though a muscle running from shoulder to hip were throbbing, like strings on a lute pulled too tight and plucked.

Nelrene bit down a sharp statement. "No."

If this was not anger, Herdir thought, he would not like to see what was.

Nelrene stormed out of the torture chamber, leaving the smell of pain, fear and several other things one would not expect to find in place dedicated to _pain_. The halls seemed to warp as if ushering her towards her office, allowing her to reach the small room in record time.

The reason why the palace was suddenly so accommodating stood behind her desk, the silver blade lying on the table.

Lahallia watched Nelrene stop in the doorway, the Mazken's eyes falling into the silver sword. Stepping into the room, her face set like stone, Nelrene closed the door. "Inquisitor."

"Grakedrig. I have the proof offered my own eyes, by the Sight, the testimony of the late Ma'zaddha, and a sword which, according to Orphael, should not be out of your possession. I bring you an accusation of conspiracy against Syl, Duchess of Dementia." Whatever Orphael told her to the contrary, Lahallia did not trust Nelrene to simply give up without a fight. Orphael also seemed too eager to harass Nelrene, hence why Lahallia had asked him to keep a discreet eye on Herdir.

Not that Lahallia expected trouble from the crooked little man, but it gave Orphael something to do.

Nelrene went gray with apprehension, then purple with fury, her expression curling into an angry snarl. "Accuse away." Nelrene's eyes bored into the Altmer's face. "Ma'zaddah, me, half of Crucible, what's it matter? Did it matter when Syl stuck a dagger between the Grakedrig Suraia's ribs? Do you understand _nothing_?"

Despite the fact this was obviously a rhetorical question, Lahallia answered it. "Then explain it to me. I still have questions."

Nelrene blinked, disarmed by the frank response. The Mazken chewed her tongue for a moment, then exploded. "It's a crime against the House of Dementia! Against her position as Duchess!" Nelrene actually shook with the fury of it, with the fury over the one Altmer – this Altmer in Sheogorath's service, therefore untouchable, blessed by him as evidenced by the blade lying on the desk – was destroying everything. _Everything_. "How dare she?! Spread her legs and whimper for Thadon, like some common Mania whore! And as if it were not enough we must _hide_ this…this shame…this…_perversion_…" Nelrene choked, unable to articulate through her anger, her chest heaving.

Lahallia raised a hand, sending a calming spell towards the Mazken, who – in her agitation – did not notice the gentle nudge. "Some would argue that what Syl does in her own quarters has nothing to do with the rest of the court."

"Some _would_," Nelrene snarled, her head buzzing. "And if it were _anyone _but Thadon, I would perhaps agree. You must understand," the effects of Lahallia's spell allowed Nelrene to see a single possibility of hope for salvaging the situation. "Lord Sheogorath appointed her, and he is never wrong. Mania and Dementia were never _meant _to cross in such a fashion. She has…" Nelrene stopped, her eyes widening.

Regardless of Lord Sheogorath never being wrong, she had just implied Syl acted wrongly…which would make Lord Sheogorath wrong…

Nelrene's jaw trembled, revealing the tremors running through her body, even as a cool seep of possibility crept up her spine. Of course, Lord Sheogorath was never wrong…and if Syl acted so wrongly…perhaps the conspiracy against her went deep. Deeper than the Mazken Captian of the Guard…which meant, to Nelrene's relief, _he_ already knew. Was already making preparations to punish, to purge…and all it took was her own death.

And what was that, really? Pain, before awakening sometime hence in the Wellspring. And it would be her honor to pave the way for Syl's removal…

Nelrene calmed and settled before Lahallia's eyes, a rather disturbing thing to watch. "I don't argue your stance on Syl, Nelrene," Lahallia declared softly. "If I had not found evidence to link you to this, I'd let it go. Tell Syl that Ma'zaddah was the only one, whatever you like. I respect the Mazken."

Nelrene drew herself up. However unpleasant Syl would make her death, she was ready to face it. Though, hearing such words from the Inquisitor made it more apparent why Lord Sheogorath held her in such high esteem. "So what are you going to do? Ask me to surrender?" This was what Nelrene asked. What she thought was how much better a duchess this Altmer would make. Much better than Syl.

"Yes." Lahallia swallowed, unnerved by Nelrene's sudden calm, and the calculating look playing across the dark features.

"You are Lord Sheogorath's agent. To harm you interferes with his plans – which I cannot do." Nelrene did not betray by word of action the fact she did not look forward to the process of dying. She could feel the honor of it alter, if someone reminded her.

"I'm sorry." Lahallia meant it. Now she had reached the end of the investigation, she knew she had never had an option to win. Either she threw the innocent Anya Herrick to Syl's tender mercies, or she served up a Mazken staunch and unswervingly loyal to the very end.

"Don't waste your time." Nelrene unbuckled her sword belt, and threw it onto the desk with the sword, knowing she could keep neither.

"I did have one more question."

Nelrene snorted.

"How did you find out about Syl and Thadon?" The question had burned in Lahallia's mind for quite some time. The Mazken did not come across as the sort of woman to listen at doors or windows for kicks. So how had she known? If she had a scrap of proof, even by sight, she certainly would have taken it to Sheogorath. Wouldn't she? And yet she had not, she had taken the matter into her own hands.

The question caught Nelrene off guard. She opened her mouth to answer, but try as she might, could not think back to the precise moment she had heard them…or saw one leaving the other's room…or anything…she simply _knew_. A constant, beating thought in her brain, Syl and Thadon, Thadon and Syl…doing _things _in the dark…and Eylara's agreement that this must be so—and stopped.

Though again she could not say when she and Eylara came to this conclusion, or who brought it up.

"I don't know…I simply _know_." Nelrene grit her teeth, but did not question the knowledge. There was a plan here, and she would not be the one to disrupt it.

--SI--

Syl's delight at Lahallia's success was quickly eclipsed by her delight Lahallia caught someone so high up in the ranks.

Lahallia herself felt simply cold inside, dislike for Syl bubbling in her stomach. Did the duchess truly so undervalue her protection?

Orphael was standing in the hallway when Lahallia followed Syl to the chamber. Syl did not even see him standing there, though Lahallia certainly did. "Watch the toad. He's not happy with you." Orphael murmured, when Lahallia paused at the door.

She nodded, her jaw set, before entering the room.

Herdir indeed glared torture and murder in her direction, though again Syl seemed to notice nothing but the Mazken standing proudly in the holding cell.

"You've confessed to attempting to kill me, I understand." An unsettling gleam lit the Bosmer's eyes, her hands knotting and twisting as if in anticipation or with nerves. "The penalty for this treachery is death, and is to be carried out immediately. But _slowly_…"

Nelrene's face took on that ashen color again, her lips pursing. But before she could speak, tell Syl to do her worst, Lahallia bowed subserviently to Syl, attracting the Bosmer's attention with the obeisance.

"If I may, Duchess," Lahallia interjected quickly, "this Mazken is too dangerous – far too dangerous. If you do not act quickly, decisively…she will find a way to escape. Pain is no obstacle for these folk. If she gets loose, then there will be trouble indeed. I fear for your safety." All lies, or at least, the part about worrying for Syl' safety. Lahallia would not have tried this track, with any sane woman. But Syl's paranoia gave the weak argument weight.

Nelrene's eyes flashed to Lahallia, who pointedly ignored the Mazken. She had not expected an easy death, and yet the Altmer was subtly steering Syl into a mood to provide just that. No torture, no 'lessons' that would not carry over through the Waters of Oblivion…just death, to reawaken in the Wellspring sometime hence.

Quick and simple. It might irritate Herdir, to have his talents thrown aside _again_, but then, there was a difference between the rack as casual amusement and the rack as punishment. Particularly since she might enjoy watching Herdir squirm and wriggle like a worm on a hook, but did not enjoy her own pain.

Lahallia finally caught Nelrene's eye. The Mazken nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

"Yes…yes…no games, Herdir!" Syl snapped. "Do it! Do it now!"

Lahallia bowed her head and closed her eyes. She did not want to watch this…

"Don't look away Altmer," Nelrene's voice cut through Lahallia's darkness.

Lahallia opened her eyes, knowing deep down, she did not have the right to close her eyes when Nelrene's life was snuffed out. She had put the Mazken there, after all.

It took less than a second. Syl nodded to Herdir, who waved his hand.

Nelrene was dead before she hit the floor, smoking slightly.

"It's over…" Syl's voice carried a hint of breathless relief. Relief Lahallia knew would not last long, before Syl started seeing shadows again.

"You have done well, Inquisitor."

Lahallia turned to Syl, feeling an urge to strike, to destroy Syl as much to alleviate her own guilt as anything else. Torture was not something Lahallia had much stomach for, but looking into the Bosmer's eyes, an urge to cast her to the floor and put her out of the Mazken's collective misery boiled up within her chest.

Syl swept out of the room, Lahallia following, but only as far as the door of the torture chamber, where Orphael leaned against a wall, watching Syl leave.

"The Mazken don't like Syl, do they?" Lahallia managed to ask in a casual voice.

Orphael snorted. "She was appointed by Lord Sheogorath after Duke Vaelar died. Lord Sheogorath is never wrong…but no. We grow tired of the disrespect she shows to our Lord, by treating the protection he has given her so lightly. Even you, fringe lunatic that you are, would make a better duchess than that fool."

Lahallia strode off, the words smacking like physical blows, though she suspected Orphael had not meant to insult her this time. Finally having lost all track of time, of when she ought to rest and when she ought to wake, Lahallia made her way to Sheogorath's throne room, glad she need not make any adjustments to her clothes.

The blue and cloud motif amused her, regardless of whether it flattered her complexion.

--SI--


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Weather or Not

--SI--

The throne room had changed. It was not something Lahallia could put her finger on, except that it did not, somehow, match her memory of the place. The dark recesses of the ceiling still played host to a tree that should not have fit in the room, but the ceiling overhead no longer seemed to hang so low above this end of the room. The sound of water running alongside the sunken portion of the room sounded louder, and the room itself seemed somehow darker, but clearer.

Even Sheogorath seemed different. Somehow, Lahallia doubted it had anything to do with her acclimating to the Isles. "Well, well. So you've experienced both shades of madness. Wonderful. You seemed fulfilled. Full of fill. Bursting at the seams. Seamless!"

Lahallia bowed her head. Surely walking on very thin ice was safer than dealing with Daedric Princes. At least he was not complaining about her wardrobe…

"And you're turning into such a snappy dresser yourself! You've got competition, Haskill!" Sheogorath roared, pounding one fist on his throne as he laughed hysterically.

"I…" Her voice broke, as the thick smell-feel of Daedric magicka filled the air.

But he'd turned dangerous before Lahallia could finish her pronoun. "Let's see if I can guess…who your little helper is…" Sheogorath stood up, eyeing Lahallia with merciless amber eyes. "There he is! Come down here. My, but you're quite the survivor." The growl in Sheogorath's tone made Lahallia begin to chew her lip. "Quite the survivor."

"My Lord is gracious," Orphael's voice responded, before he stepped up to Lahallia's side. For a moment she had a brief glimpse of him out of the corner of his eyes, dressed in black as he always was, then he knelt and abruptly was wearing an iridescent armored tunic. If she strained her eyes, rolled them as far to the side as they would go, she could see the wing tattoos, half-remembered from Vision decorating his shoulders.

"Get up, get up – we're very busy today," Sheogorath snapped and abruptly, Orphael stood slightly before Lahallia, giving her a good look at the part of his back unprotected by his armor. She could see why he preferred to walk around in more mundane fashion, though a greater part of her mind would have liked to see the tattoos in their entirety, and ask about them.

Something strange happened to Lahallia's vision and hearing. For a moment all she could see were blurred outlines of Orphael and Sheogorath suddenly by Sheogorath's throne, standing close together as if in conference, while an unidentifiable pressure exerted itself on her eardrums.

--SI--

Orphael did not mind the whips of energy lashing about his ears as Sheogorath shunted him from place to place. Watching Lahallia try to accept the sudden, impossible changes in position was worth the discomfort. "So, she's gone and found the best help available. _Have_ you been helpful?" Sheogorath asked, sitting down in his chair as the elf stared blankly at them, for a moment held outside of time. His tone indicated if the answer was no…

…out would come the claws. Or the clowns.

"Yes, my lord." Of course he was helpful; she was Lord Sheogorath's agent in the Isles. It did not mean, however, he was not allowed to annoy her.

"No, she needs a good rankling." Sheogorath nodded, as if picking up the Mazken's thoughts.

"She's very boring. Most of the time." Very boring, but give her enough time in the Isles and that would take care of itself. She was already starting to shake off the Apocrypha, like so much dust. Her hair had begun to tangle, she could get angry.

"Daedra are never boring – you'll have to help her with that." Sheogorath walked twice around Lahallia's stock-still form, her eyes still riveted towards the throne. "I want her a lot less boring before long. Work on that."

Orphael nodded, wondering how he was supposed to do such a thing.

"_It's important_!" Sheogorath roared, a roar that was as much in Orphael's head as in his ears.

Opening his eyes from his wince, Orphael found himself staring into the mad, bloodshot eyes of a clown, a clown examining his throat very closely. Terror of something he could not remember welled up so fast it caused sweat to break out across his brow. Teeth. Very sharp teeth and sharp, clawlike curving nails…

"It's incredibly important! She's the fly in the ointment. A new cause for a different effect. We're going to _change_ things, boy. No...things will be _different_ this time around." Sheogorath seethed on the spot, the very fabric of the Realm pulling towards him, as if he meant to ball it up, throw it away and start over again. No, not throw it away…_erase it_.

The sensation passed almost as quickly as it came, leaving Sheogorath looking pensive.

"Yes, sire…" Orphael swallowed, as Sheogorath laughed, a low, hair-raising laugh.

"Ah, you don't like clowns, do you?"

Orphael shook his head, then abruptly found himself nose to nose with the statue like Lahallia. This close, the tiny imperfections in her skin were easily visible. A small, round scar near her eye, a faint sprinkling of freckles across her cheekbones. And the mismatched eyes, currently blank as glass. He didn't like the blank eyes.

"Then you'd best get used to seeing this instead. She'll do what I tell her, and you'll help her. Or die trying. I love that about you." Sheogorath patted Orphael's shoulder.

"What is she doing…My Lord?" The creep of unease, of something forgotten floated beneath the surface of Orphael's memory.

As Sheogorath watched, the Mazken's eyes turned brilliantly green, reflective, his expression going quite black. "Now, that would be telling."

--SI--

"These are _my_ Mazken," Sheogorath was suddenly saying, Orphael standing slightly behind Lahallia again, holding her elbow in his hand, as if she had started to sway on the spot. "They live for me! They _die_ for me! Whatever I want, they'll do it. Cheerfully."

Lahallia pursed her lips, so as not to point out how petty and barbaric the sentiment was. Surely not something one ever said to a Daedric lord. Not if that individual wanted to walk away. Or continue breathing.

Sheogorath chuckled darkly, those pitiless eyes fixed upon the Altmer, demurely watching the floor. "Barbaric is it? We shall see, when you've had time to think about it."

Orphael's head buzzed uncomfortably, as he gave Lahallia's elbow a warning squeeze. _Don't make him mad. Mad-er. _

"But, we're talking business, and _you_," Sheogorath smirked at Orphael, wagging a finger at him, "will wait outside. I have plans for you, and don't want you distracting my Champion. She's a busy lady. Distractions come later. Shoo."

Orphael bowed. "Keep your temper," he murmured before withdrawing obediently.

If he had not said it, she would have kept her temper just fine.

"Now!" Lahallia jumped, Sheogorath's face inches away from her nose. "You'll do well to get your mind where it belongs. Between your ears and on the business at hand!" Sheogorath took her nod in place of an actual answer. "Have you paid attention to the city?" Another nod. "The Great Torch shines brightly above New Sheoth, a beacon of hope for all the citizens."

"…no it doesn't…" The words bubbled to Lahallia's lips like springwater.

Sheogorath laughed, clapping. "Good! I'll even forgive you for contradicting me. You're right: it doesn't And it _should_! Happens every time the Greymarch begins. Which it has. Makes all of my subjects uneasy. Tense. Homicidal. Some of them, at least. We need to get that Torch relit, before the place falls apart."

"Command me."

"I need a free thinker, elf, not another Daedra," Sheogorath's tone took on an angry edge. "Otherwise, I'd have put your little friend onto this task, and left you to rot where you were."

Never mind the fact Azura had sent her here, and Sheogorath had _not_ summoned her himself. As he clearly thought he had. Then again, delusions and madness went hand in hand.

"Now, you'll go to Cylarne and bring back the Flame of Agnon to relight the torch." Lahallia cast about for what she knew about Cylarne and realized she already knew where it was. Strangely enough, she could not remember who had told her… "Oh...and take care with my minions at Cylarne. Be very gentle. In their eternal quest to please me, they're constantly fighting over Cylarne. It can be tiresome. But, really, it's divine." After a moment he added under his breath, "_Divinely tiresome_."

"Yes my lord."

"Well. It's your problem now. Off with you. I don't want to see you again until the Great Torch is lit. I wouldn't want to have to hurt you. _Much_."

She did not wait for any further instructions.

--SI--

A storm brewed, spores and dust continued to dance in the air, never seeming to land. Lahallia continued to walk, the first major crossroads looming ahead, at which point she should veer off to the west.

Thunder boomed, making Lahallia start.

"Oi! Get off the road!" From out of sight up ahead, a lone Aureal, carrying her sword so she could run with it without battering herself bloody, came charging up the path, her eyes flickering from the sky to Lahallia. The little light available flashed off her golden armor which looked to Lahallia more of a fashion statement, than a functional suit of armor, making the Aureal much akin in looks to an overly warlike Daedric circus girl.

The Aureal grabbed Lahallia's shoulder, pushing the Altmer ahead of her, forcing Lahallia to run. This close, Lahallia could pick out the feathery patterns the armor bore. The sweet jingle of gold on gold kept time as the Aureal shunted Lahallia along.

"What the..." Lahallia's skin crawled as pressure built up behind her eyes, Vision looming like a toothy maw ahead over her, into which the Aureal would surely push her…

Yet she did not dare stop running, lest the Aureal simply run over her. The sound of the Aureal breathing hard through flared nostrils filled Lahallia's ears.

Lahallia stumbled up a short flight of stairs, past a clump of luminous blue-green mushrooms. Hitting the wooden floor, she lay shaking as the Aureal, muttering darkly, stepped over her. "Kh – imagine getting caught out in that mess," the Aureal growled more audibly to her companion, her golden hawk-like features drawn into a disapproving scowl. "These mortals – they're just like _sheep_. Content to wander till the sky falls down on them."

The other nodded, looking at the fallen Altmer with mild disinterest. Unlike her companion, this Aureal had already doffed her helmet, her sword leaning in easy reach against the table. Her short hair bore the signs of too much time beneath a helmet, but the Aureal herself showed absolutely no sign of self consciousness over helmet hair.

Lahallia began to shake harder, her throat locking up, realization dawning that neither Aureal realized there was a problem…a really, really big problem…

Lahallia's eyes rolled and she growled deep in the back of her throat as darkness enveloped her eyes. Her last coherent thought was wishing for Orphael and his spells to help ease the effects.

--SI--

_A boy-child. A child with blue eyes, and nearly golden hair, born as the new branch of an old house. Aedra, Daedra, steeped in mortality and wrapped in loving care. One of three who would set the course for the new era, born as frost creeps into the ground, and storms bite at the world. _

_Call him_ Aurelius. _For his reign will be…golden_.

--SI--

The two Aureals watched in horrified fascination as the Altmer thrashed on the ground. Suddenly, however she went limp as dead fish, her eyes white slits in her head. A weak breath escaped her before she went quite still.

The two Aureals continued to stare. "What…" one began, looking from the still form of the Altmer to her companion.

Lahallia stirred, her ears ringing, the sounds of Aureal voices overhead. Hazily, the two fierce faces came into focus, frowning, eyebrows knitting together in astonishingly similar scowls. Lahallia wondered for a moment if the Aureals were simply all so close in resemblance, or if these two were sisters. "Easy, madwoman," the mouth of a canteen found its way to her lips, as a strong hand steadied her in a sitting position.

Lahallia swallowed a little water, then choked, spraying nearly as much again as she shuddered. "Don't…don't touch me…" she panted, rubbing her neck. Sweat stood out on her forehead, making her skin clammy, and causing a chill which felt unnatural in Mania's warm climate to cling like sickness.

"Well then…" Straightening up, the offended Aureal gave Lahallia an expression of dislike, her lip curling.

Lahallia shook her head quickly, realizing her intent had not come across properly, resulting in what must seem to the Aureals like rudeness. "Nn…I'm a…Seer. It's nothing…p-personal…" she managed, not sure how well Aureals would take rudeness. Their visages certainly did not lend themselves towards what Lahallia could call a patient or forgiving disposition.

The two Aureals exchanged looks again. "There are no Seers in the Isles. That would be…" 'Bad' would suffice to finish the sentence. One of the very few things for which there was an actually _reason_ past Lord Sheogorath's fancies.

The Isles affected Seers differently than their so-called 'real' world, twisting their Gift, making it more unpredictable, and sometimes more expansive than anywhere else in the world. Never, however, did the Gift diminish. All the easier for them to go mad, and be unable to function on _any _level, so their presence was not encouraged, at risk to the rest of the populace.

For the life of her, the Aureal could not remember why she knew this, or how, forced to simply accept it as important enough to retain after the Waters claimed her, then spat her back out.

"Ridiculous." Her companion finished, eyeing Lahallia closely. "But she obviously is."

Drawing up her knees, Lahallia closed her eyes, wishing with all her might that when she opened them, she would see nothing more than the Apocrypha, quiet and gray, having fallen asleep – or as close to sleep as elves got – having simply dreamed all this strangeness. She knew better than to hope, but could not entirely squash the notion.

A heavy thud made Lahallia jump again, prompting her to take off her sword belt before she jabbed herself in the ribs with the hilt again. A single jab with Malice's hilt would not have made her ribs ache quite so much. Already she could feel a bruise forming, more evidence of her startled jump, and the sword's inability to pass through the floor.

Outside the storm broke, but rather than raining, or hailing, or even sleet – or green goo with no identifiable purpose other than to muck up the landscape – the clouds yielded….

…flaming dogs.

Lahallia, unexpectedly, gave a titter of relief. She had expected something truly awful, but all lore stated Sheogorath found hails of flaming dogs most amusing, and therefore there was no surprise in seeing them, past the fact fiery dogs fell from the sky in the first place.

But at least here, there was _precedent_. Glorious precedent!

After all, it was not as if anything about the flaming dogs was particularly frightening, compared with, say, the Gatekeeper, or the Grummites and their cleavers. Lahallia absently touched her throat. Certainly, predicting the weather here would prove a fruitless exercise – one of many, Lahallia snorted. Vaguely, Lahallia wondered if anything were predictable, and if not, how did the Aureals know to take cover? Surely, it could not be comfortable, having a flaming dog land on your head…

Cutting short the nonsense, Lahallia forced herself to think logically.

Which either pointed, said her inner Attendant, as she conjured her catalogue, to scribble her musing on the subject – to some attunement to the Isles themselves, to Sheogorath's will, or some method to the madness.

"Does it hail dogs often?" Lahallia asked, watching the dead hounds hit the ground, bones breaking on impact, the bodies bouncing slightly as they hit. What did happen, when the so-called storm was over? Surely rotting dog corpses were not left lying about, to rot in the sun?

"Not often, but it's the season for it." One of the Aureals answered, disinterestedly without giving Lahallia much attention. "Then again," she added as an afterthought, "any season's the season for it." Sniffing, she returned to the conversation with her teammate.

Lahallia nodded absently, watching as the hail of dogs increased, then finally slacked off, putting her book away. "And the corpses?" Lahallia turned, once the storm concluded, the sky turning vividly gold overhead. "Do they just, lie there?"

The Aureals, both buckling their swords back around their waists, pulling on their helmets. "That is disgusting." One of the Aureals frowned, bucking the chinstrap of her helmet.

"Take a look behind you," the other jerked with her chin, rolling her eyes at the Altmer's thickness when her back was turned.

Sure enough, the ground bore no mark of flaming dogs except a few singed spots on the grass which vanished the longer Lahallia looked at them.

"I recommend," one of the Aureals paused on her way down the steps, frowning up at Lahallia with a sort of practiced patience she did not really feel, "that you get back on the road," she pointed, "then get yourself up to Highcross. It's not safe for you to wander around in the wilds, Seer." Unless of course this was some form of bizarre suicide, for someone who wished to avoid standing on the Hill forevermore.

She might as well have said, 'fool', as 'Seer'. Lahallia's teeth clenched, her expression tightening. "I am on a mission for Sheo…Lord Sheogorath," she corrected herself whether Aureal reached absently for her sword, clear warning for Lahallia to watch her tongue, and to speak nicely. "Where I walk is my business."

"Well, _if _you are on a mission for Lord Sheogorath, best not to dawdle," The Aureal responded, her tone still one of practiced politeness, despite the look of surprise. "Where are you bound?"

"To Cylarne." Both Aureals exchanged worried looks. Lahallia inclined her head, her mouth twisting in a smile which hinted disdainful mockery, but not enough or anyone in their right mind – as the Aureals seemed to be – to take offense from.

--SI--


	30. Chapter 30

Author's Note: Okay, hopefully the updates will now resume more regularly. I apologize for the long wait, and appreciate those of you sticking with this story.

~Raven Studios

--SI--

Chapter Thirty: Cylarne

--SI--

The crumbling complex of Cylarne sprawled across a peninsula to the far north and west of the Shivering Isles. The warm Mania light and atmosphere persisted for most of Lahallia's journey, darkening to sunset as she arrived at the heavy iron gates, which swung open for her as she neared them.

Perhaps it was something in the air – pollen and spores still danced thickly, like unmelting snow – but her mood was as good as it ever got, which left her distinctly ready to get things accomplished, now she had arrived.

Directly beyond the gates, atop a flight of stairs stood a massive alcove of carved stone, the outer edges carved and figured. Placed as it was, it drew the eye, leading Lahallia to believe it should not be empty at all – nor was it. As she moved closer, the alcove proved to house a large, shallow basin, big enough for an Altmer to lie down in, should she have wish or reason.

Standing east and west of the courtyard before the basin were Aureals and Mazken, respectively. A pair of guards each standing before smaller gates, giving each other cold looks.

"State your name and business." The pronouncement came from both sides, one Aureal and one Mazken speaking almost in unison.

"Lahallia Kiranni. I was sent by Lord Sheogorath." Lahallia's hand wrapped about Malice's hilt, as two pairs of slanted, vivid eyes came to rest upon her. The awkward silence that filled the courtyard at this pronouncement plainly indicated she was unexpected.

Striding into the courtyard, Lahallia turned towards the gate where the Mazken stood guard. Both saluted smartly then opened the gates to allow her to pass, murmuring something polite and meaningless as she passed. "Who is in charge here?" Lahallia asked the gate wardens.

"You're looking for Grakedrig Ulfri. Tell the door warden, and she will take you to the Grakedrig. We may not leave our posts, Agent. Not with the Aureals on the watch." The tone of apology was unmistakable. The Mazken who had spoken unlocked the iron gate for Lahallia, then returned to her stoic watching of the Aureals.

Lahallia strode purposefully through the gate, across another courtyard overgrown with long grasses and through a pair of heavy stone doors. The vault in which she found herself began with stairs, leading down into a cool subterranean complex. It reminded her of Xedilian, formerly grand, now slowly crumbling.

But the walls still bore magnificent green and blue banners, holding the seal of Dementia. The torches blazed brilliant blue-green. As Lahallia reached the foot of the stairs, before she could cross to the shorter flight leading upwards to another level of the ruin, she was met by a female Mazken.

"Stop right there, mortal. This is no place for you. Stare your business."

"I am looking for Grakedrig Ulfri. The door warden told me it was to her I should speak."

The Mazken opened her mouth then nodded, electing not to argue. "Very well. Follow me, and do keep up. We may not have much time, before the Aureals attack again…" The Mazken strode off at a brisk walk, her boots thudding dully against the flagstones not covered in dirt. Unlike the armor the males wore, the armor worn by the women revealed the full show of dragon like wings, etched into each back.

As she followed the Mazken deeper into what the Mazken identified as the Nadir of Despair – the complex housing the Altar of Despair – Lahallia found the place crawling with Mazken, and not just female Mazken. Moving about in clusters, males carried bundles of arrows, swapping out blunted or damaged swords for fresh ones.

"What have you got there?" This female was paler than any other Lahallia had yet seen, her skin ashy blue-gray with eyes to match. She wore her hair shorn so short, the skin peeked out through the dense black frizz, and wore many silver studs running from the lobes of her ears to their tips. "Ah, you I recognize." The Mazken immediately bowed. "You'll forgive me for saying so, but you've come at a bad time, Emissary. You're very close to finding yourself between a Mazken and her prey – a dangerous place to be."

Not a threat, simply a statement of fact.

"I take it you are Grakedrig Ulfri."

"I am indeed. Please, step this way. We are preparing for the Aureal attack." The Grakedrig led Lahallia to a small alcove where two benches, set into niches in the walls, were covered with thin cushions. "May I ask what has brought you from New Sheoth?"

"Lord Sheogorath requires that the flame of Agnon be relit." Lahallia sat down, but waved away the offer of a drink. If a battle were truly impending, it would not do to end up drunk, or even mildly intoxicated. Sheogorath's hints were clear enough: the fighting was tiresome and counterproductive. She should put a stop to it, for now at least.

"And we would gladly do it," Ulfri replied. "As I have said, we are expecting the Aureals to attack any moment. They'll come down the main passage from the Axial Court. They always do." The Grakedrig smiled, revealing fanged teeth. "They are overconfident, as usual, and never learn. We have prepared many traps and ambushes. It will be a glorious slaughter. Once the Aureals are destroyed, I will light the Flame of Agnon for you." Ulfri got to her feet. "If it is your wish, Emissary, I would invite you to help us defend the Altar of Despair. It will be a glorious battle, and an honor if you were to join us."

Lahallia rose to her feet as well, giving the matter serious thought. "I should like to speak with the Aureals first."

Ulfri's brows contracted, but then her expression brightened, like the sun moving from behind clouds. "Yes... yes! Their commander, Kaneh, is gullible enough to take you at face value...She would reveal all her plans to you, Sheogorath's Emissary! Beautifully devious. It embarrasses me not to have thought of it first." Ulfri shook her head, amazed at the simplicity, the duplicity. No wonder Lord Sheogorath held this Altmer in such high esteem, so crafty, so devious….almost _Mazken_ in her thinking!

Not like that paranoid lump, Syl, so afraid of her own shadow the thought to bestir herself from her wing of the castle never occurred to her. With a leader the likes of this Altmer, no one would ever contest the superiority of Dementia – and finally the Mazken would have a leader fitting to them, as Lord Sheogorath's most loyal servants.

"Permit me to walk you back to the Axial Court, Emissary." Ulfri bowed again.

"Thank you." Lahallia fell into step with the Mazken. Glancing down at her cloud-patterned clothes, she brushed them off, as if ridding the dust and weariness of travel from them. As she moved her hands, the clouds and blue sky flaked away, revealing a black cloth that shimmered softly blue-green.

The same blue-green as the iridescent plates in the Mazken armor.

--SI--

The Aureal door wardens did not smile as the emissary emerged from the Nadir of Despair to cross the Axial Court. Black robes that previously shimmered blue-green changed to wink red-purple as the sunlight touched them.

Wordlessly, the door wardens let her though wondering at what her appearance here at Cylarne meant. Surely he had spoken to the Mazken first, so as to see what their defenses looked like. How could the emissary not see how treacherous the Mazken were? How unworthy to serve Lord Sheogorath? Surely this was a sign that soon, both the Nadir of Despair and the Zenith of Rapture would be under Aureal control. Safe, with the befouling taint of Mazken presence purged.

Lahallia's eyes fell on the backs of the female Aureals prowling around. They, like their Mazken counterparts, wore the feathery wings upon their backs in plain view. Only immortals would wear something so impractical to a fight.

Lahallia did not need to look far to find the Aureal most likely to be Kaneh. She was the one standing, bareheaded, as Ulfri had been, and apparently arguing with one of her male subordinates. Unlike the other wings peeping from beneath armored corsets – well, that was what they looked like – his were different, as though someone had taken gold paint and delicately inked the outlines and details of the feathers, but left the golden flesh to show through.

"…my scouts reported no signs of the Mazken in the Underdeep. It's our best chance to take them unawares," he was saying. Something about him, something in his bearing, was vaguely familiar. Lahallia simply couldn't place it.

"Too risky, Mirel," Kaneh shook her head, squinting at Lahallia past Mirel's shoulder. "It's likely to be a trap. They could cut us to pieces down there if they knew we were coming." Surely he realized that. It was the sort of thing the Mazken would do, after all. Treachery came to them as easily as dying. Thank Sheogorath they couldn't breed.

"With all due respect, Aurmazl, I ask that you reconsider." Mirel pressed. "The main passage is strongly defended. Perhaps if you'd allow me to scout further..."

"No means no, Mirel. We attack through the main doors, from the Axial Court. It will work."

Mirel sighed. "Like it worked the last time? And the time before that?" he breathed, so Kaneh wouldn't hear him, even as she pushed past.

"You. This place is about to turn into a killing ground. Unless you have business here, be off."

Lahallia arched her eyebrows. Keeping company with the Mazken took the edge off of memories of how much she disliked Aureals. Snooty, snapping, arrogant and overbearing. "I am Lord Sheogorath's Emissary. Would you care to reconsider those words?"

Kaneh stopped, her expression frozen as if Lahallia had just struck her sharply across the face. "Lord Sheogorath's…"

"Emissary. Yes." Lahallia crossed her arms.

"My pardon, Emissary. I am at your service," Kaneh bowed.

Mirel crossed his arms, watching with grim satisfaction. It was not a good thought to have before major battle, but it was nice to see Kaneh made to sweat and feel stupid.

"We are preparing to sweep the Mazken scum from Cylarne. Perhaps…perhaps Sheogorath sent you to help us?" Kaneh asked, dry-mouthed. None of her scouts had reported the presence of the Emissary, nor even that Sheogorath _had_ one. Or maybe they had, and she had dismissed the thought. The Aureals were more than capable of upholding the honor of Lord Sheogorath's name without mortal help.

The Emissary could only mean _he_ was losing faith in them…in her. The pressure to bring the Nadir of Despair, and therefore the Altar under Aureal control doubled.

"Perhaps." Lahallia did not tip her hand. It was not the lack of respect that had sealed these Aureals' fates. She would have preferred to stay out of this, but that was not an option. Sheogorath made his orders very plain: she was to put a stop to the nonsense. Which meant getting her hands dirty, or bloody, or covered in clouds…

…Lahallia sighed. She had to get out of here. The longer she stayed, the more rubbish floated thought her mind, lodging who ken where to disrupt logic and reason at some later date.

No, what really sealed the Aureals' fates was that Lahallia knew several Mazken well enough to respect them, and their opinions. One of them certainly irritated her….but not _all _the time. "So tell me, Aurmazl. What is the plan concocted by Sheogorath's most favored?"

The words had the necessary effect. "I intend to take my Aureals across the Axial Court, down the main passageway, into the very heart of the Nadir of Despair. It will be a glorious slaughter!"

"I see. Well, I'm, sure you have preparations to see to."

Kaneh did not like the dismissal. She did not, however, want to interrupt the Emissary's bout of thoughtfulness, for as soon as she dismissed the Aurmazl, Lahallia wandered distractedly away, musing how best to approach the male Aureal - Mirel. The idea of a place that could trap, slow, or otherwise funnel the Aureals into the waiting forest of Mazken weapons had appeal.

She did not have to wait. As soon as Kaneh was out of earshot, Mirel made a beeline for her, recognizing someone who was not as shortsighted as Kaneh.

"Emissary?" Mirel bowed politely.

"Yes?" The sky darkened abruptly to midnight black. This time, it failed to unnerve her. Calmly she cast her magelight, letting it shine brilliant white, hanging overhead like the moon.

It turned lurid green with purple fizzling sparks…and pink polka dots.

It would do her no good to try and turn it back. Letting it hang bizarrely colorful, Lahallia listened to the quiet words of the astonishingly _short _Aureal before her. "You are seeking tactics to grant us victory, are you not?"

"The Aurmazl seems to have everything in hand."

Mirel was not going to let her put him off that easily. "Of course, Emissary. But, I thought perhaps you ought to be aware of…of a better option. One that will not end in the slaughter of all present."

"Oh?" Amazing how easy it was to string him along. They just kept making it easier and easier. Forget silver platters, their golden shields would suffice just as well, to be served up upon.

"Aurmazl Kaneh wants to assault the altar down the main passage, as she told you. But the Mazken are _expecting_ us to come that way. It is the way we have launched attacks before, with no success. Only losses."

Ah, the definition of insanity at work. Lahallia nodded, secretly bemused.

"They've strongly fortified the main passage against us. Another attack that way will only end in a glorious defeat. But, it we attacked through the Underdeep, we could take them by surprise."

"Slip through the back door?" Lahallia asked. It was very devious for an Aureal. A commendable idea, though. "What does Kaneh say is wrong with this argument? Too treacherous?"

Mirel snorted. "No. She thinks the Underdeep is a trap. It is true, if the Mazken knew we were coming that way, we wouldn't stand a chance. But I'm _convinced_ the Mazken don't expect us to come that way. I've gone down that passage, Emissary. They pay it little heed. They know Aurmazl Kaneh's tactics. They would never expect her to _change_ them. If we attacked in full force through Underdeep, we could take the Altar of Despair before they had a chance to react."

A smile crept across Lahallia's features. "It sounds like a plan with merit. But I think Kaneh will tell me the same thing she told you: no. Unless…" Lahallia paused, to give Mirel a moment to go from disappointment to hopeful anticipation, "I was to have a look around. Confirm what you've already told her. I might be able to make her listen to reason, if reason exists."

It was too easy. But after the last investigation, Lahallia was in the mood for something easy.

--SI--


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter Thirty-One: The Cold Flame of Agnon

--SI--

Grakedrig Ulfri was so delighted with the deception she personally escorted Lahallia partway into Underdeep. It was less a cave—as Lahallia expected—and more part of the Cylarne complex, linking the Zenith of Rapture and the Nadir of Despair. The only evidence of a change in locale was the tapestries upon the wall.

Deep down, Lahallia could not understand why neither side had fortified this passageway, but like the Mazken, and the Aureals themselves, chose not to question the inconsistency.

The passage itself was narrow, and lacked offensive positions. However the place it opened out into, within the Nadir of Despair, afforded the Mazken many good places from which to hail down arrows onto an attacking force. All of this Ulfri pointed out to Lahallia, so if she took part in the battle—and why should she not?—she would not end up in the Mazken line of fire.

A poor way to repay such a marvelously clever and plausible plan to retake Cylarne, killing the originator.

"Do you think you can convince Kaneh?" Ulfri asked, as Lahallia made her way down into the lower passage. Lahallia paused on the last step, casting a spell to keep shoes and robes dry. The floor was awash in several inches of water, which smelled stale.

"I think so. The Aureals are very trusting." Lahallia conjured her magelight, not even trying to direct it as to what color she would like it to take. Sheogorath, or the Isles themselves – possible both were one and the same – had already made it clear that like boring clothes, boring lights were not allowed.

She would never have imagined the Daedric Lord as a details man, but apparently he was. For now. If she did not suspect it would end badly for her, she almost hoped he got over his painstaking attention to what she was doing, and focus on someone else. She would not, however, hold her breath.

"That they are." Ulfri sloshed after Lahallia, the elf's light giving Underdeep a reddish-gold glow, which yielded deep shadows.

"They think this place is undefended. Take what time you need to get your people moved. I'll tell Kaneh I was doing a very thorough scout." Lahallia returned back down the passage, and up out of the water.

"At once, Emissary." Ulfri bowed then hurried along, leaving Lahallia quite alone.

The Aureals had quite the unpleasant surprise coming. Lahallia might have felt a twinge of guilt over all this, if she didn't know they would all return to the Isles eventually. Immortal soldiers, whose lives ended only to begin again, made planning an ambush like this less distasteful than it would be in the Empire.

--SI--

Darkness still lay heavy over Cylarne, the Flame of Agnon lay dead and cold, while chill breezes bringing night fog from the sea crept close to the ground. The fog twisted and twined around Aureal boots as they waited, heedless of the chill or the dark.

Kaneh chewed the inside of her lip. The Emissary's prolonged absence worried her. The Mazken were not to be trusted…did they think taking such a person hostage would somehow bolster their position? Then the attack would become a rescue mission. Lord Sheogorath might well expel the Mazken for laying hands on his Emissary…but he would certainly be furious the Aureals had let it happen in the first place.

Kaneh nearly screamed as the door to Underdeep opened of its own accord.

Lahallia counted herself lucky she had cast magical shields against arrows, for several sped her way, bouncing harmlessly off the shield, glittering golden in her magelight. "A wonderful welcome, I must say, Aurmazl."

Kaneh gaped. "Emissary we…"

"Were not expecting me, I noticed," Lahallia strode down the short flight of steps leading to the ground, giving the Aureals nasty looks. Really, they were very quick to let arrows fly. What if she hadn't had the forethought to ward herself properly? "But that's neither here nor there. I'm here about the Altar of Despair."

"Of course…" Kaneh waited silently, licking her lips with apprehension.

"Go through Underdeep." Lahallia expected Kaneh to protest, and was not disappointed.

"Underdeep? Mirel's pet project…" Kaneh cast a disgruntled scowl in Mirel's direction. "I've already made my decision. We attack down the main passage!" she pointed, the picture of stubbornness.

"Then you will fail, and the Mazken will happily slip back this way, and steal the Altar of Rapture out from under you. In the end, _they_ will hold Cylarne and _you _will be responsible for that." Lahallia folded her hands behind her. Truer words she was not sure she had spoken today.

Kaneh looked around. "I…are you certain?"

"Did I not just come through Underdeep? The Mazken Grakedrig knows how you think, Aurmazl. She is ready for you. Listen to me, if you will not listen to Mirel." The dark of the night gave every indication of creeping closer, as if sidling up to watch the events preparing to unfold.

Kaneh considered silently for a few moments, the nodded slowly. "Mirel was very convincing as well...very well, Emissary. I take it you will accompany us?"

"Lord Sheogorath wishes me to ensure victory. I can hardly stay here."

"Very well. We'll risk it. The Underdeep it is. May Sheogorath's divine madness possess us today!" Kaneh turned, barking orders to her assembled Aureals.

Lahallia stood silently, watching the rally, and the way Kaneh fearlessly led her troops into Underdeep. Following them at a safe distance, Lahallia shook her head. How easy these Aureals were to manipulate. Tell them what they wanted to hear, speak reverently of Sheogorath and they'd happily throw themselves into a pit full of clowns.

Overhead, lighting split the sky, vividly purple, as Lahallia stepped into the doorway leading to Underdeep.

--SI--

The sound of slaughter echoed loudly off the walls, before Lahallia reached the killing ground. Having followed the Aureals down left her with a very simple job, though one easier said than done. Her task, as she saw it, was to prevent the Aureals from retreating, and regrouping. She stopped as the sounds grew just loud enough to interfere with her concentration.

Magicka existed. Anyone with the most minor spark of it could verify this. However, only those who studied it, and who spent time in the Daedric Realms understood that magicka in Mundus was 'normal'. Magicka—of the 'usual' variety—in the Daedric Realms was cheeky, influenced by the underlying Daedric magicka, becoming something odd in these odder lands.

The puffs of magicka, cold and dank, hot and hazy, mingled and roiled as Lahallia gathered her spells, as though she were gathering her skirts to keep them clear of puddles. Screams of the ambushed and the ambushers bounced off the stone, fragmenting and shattering into sharp sounds like knives.

The first Aureal showed her face, angry, with a long golden sword in hand. The animosity stamped across Kaneh's face was unmistakable. The blood streaming from a nick above her eye, as though her helmet had taken a blow that caused the rim to gouge deep, added ghastly effect, and gave evidence that she fought her way back specifically to find Lahallia.

Sweating, with her helmet gone, Kaneh looked more dangerous than any animal or Daedra Lahallia had ever seen…except the Princes themselves.

Lahallia swallowed, her indifferent mood shattering as she watched the Aureal's expression grow uglier still. Her heart pounded, her Malice-free hand leapt to shoulder height, pulling the spell her mind clutched in that moment of fear.

Kaneh raised her sword to shoulder height and charged, swinging it across at the shocked Altmer.

The golden blade met madness ore, and for a moment they were close enough to feel the other's breath. Kaneh freed a hand from her sword and struck Lahallia across the face with it, but the blow was off target, doing more to irritate than incapacitate.

Lahallia's cheekbone throbbed from the clip she'd received from Kaneh's bracer. The throb of blood caused her fear to vanish. Reduced to smacks, slaps, and cheap shots already? And _this_ was the pride of the Aureal garrison?

A fierce rush of superiority froze her fear so quickly she thought it had simply burned away—the chill of freezing and the flame of fire so similar in that instant. The swords clashed again, but this time Kaneh found real, skilled, well-trained resistance—not the swift parry of the startled. She had underestimated this Attendant, and now knew it.

But she was only an Attendant, neither moored in this Realm, nor really welcome… "You're dead..." Kaneh hissed. "We should have purged you from this land when you first set foot here. Blight!"

"I am not _dead_…" Lahallia's mismatched eyes flicked to the golden sword blade. "You are."

The gold crumpled like jam left on a plate, discolored spots appearing on it, and growing like mold.

Kaneh staggered back, casting aside the sword in favor of her knife—though she knew the small blade would do her no good. Once meant to take her life upon the Altar of Despair, now it never would. The thought brought a wave of sickness over Kaneh, sickness only the death of this Altmer, whose every step in this land was a blasphemy against madness itself could assuage.

Lahallia swung Malice once, as if limbering her wrist, then raised a hand towards Kaneh.

Kaneh did not fling the dagger at the Altmer's black heart. In fact, she did not get further than adjusting her footing for a single, desperate, vicious spring at the elf. A spring which, Kaneh knew, would probably end in both of them dying. But _she_ would win the victory. _She _would return from the Wellspring…and the Altmer would, simply be _dead_.

Lahallia swung the sword again, and again, caught up in the sounds of the battle ahead, and the pervasive smell of what she knew to be Aureal blood. And here she was, about to finish off the commanding officer of the Aureals…not Ulfri, but she, Lahallia…the thought buoyed her up, and took away any hesitation she had about landing the killing blow.

The Mazken respected her because she was Sheogorath's agent. And now…she would be proven as an ally, a valuable one. She had delivered them the Altar of Rapture…and taken the head of the Aureal who had so long held it.

And Sheogorath would be pleased that she had joined into the fighting, for she was sure he was watching.

Malice began to glow, golden-white in her hand, leaving afterimages of its path as she swung it.

Kaneh's golden eyes followed the weapon's progress, perplexed, until she felt the faintest, tell-tale crackle of lightning in the air, signaling the method of her death. She raised her dagger to block the lunge she thought she saw impending.

Lahallia did not lunge—Kaneh had already proved the inadvisability to getting too close. She swung about, as a miner swinging a pickaxe, then let the blade go, a telekinesis spell keeping the weapon on track. The momentum generated by her pivoting steps sunk the blade into Kaneh's torso halfway to the hilt.

Kaneh's scream was cut short by the lightning still contained by the sword leaping free into flesh. Not enough to kill, but certainly enough to _almost_ do it. The smell of burning hair and singeing skin permeated the air around Kaneh over the increasingly strong scent of blood from the battleground beyond.

Kaneh's golden dagger dropped to the floor as darkness began to eat away at her vision. Her knees relayed to the rest of her the sharp bite of the stonework floor as she collapsed to them. For a moment, in which pain screamed through her, all was darkness. Her eyes opened again to Lahallia her walking towards her, black skirts rippling.

"May...Lord Sheogorath…judge between you and me," Kaneh spat, glaring at that hated, porcelain pale face.

Lahallia, unperturbed, bent down on one knee so they were on a level, and grasped Malice's hilt. It was warm, but not burning. "Someone had to lose. I think he will be well pleased." Mercilessly she pulled the blade free, giving it a flick to get the blood off it. The golden liquid, with its faint reddish tinge glittered in the air.

She strode past Kaneh, then stopped, turning, her hand outstretched. The spell was like a soul-trap, though since Kaneh was an immortal Daedra it would not work as it would for a mortal creature. Kaneh's body exhaled as her life-force was ripped free by magicka.

Lahallia watched dispassionately as Kaneh collapsed to the ground, her immortal soul released to the Waters of Oblivion.

Heavy boots on stone made Lahallia pivot again, but this time she found her sword pointed at Ulfri, who ground to a halt. Sweating, panting Mazken soldiers filled the hallway behind her. "Are you hurt, Emiss…" Ulfri's eyes fell to the crumpled remains of Kaneh.

"I am not," though Lahallia touched her throbbing face.

The gazes, the smiles, the appreciative murmuring as Ulfri checked Kaneh's body for signs of life confirmed Lahallia's theory was correct. Before, she was respected because of her association with Sheogorath.

Now she was accepted as an ally.

Though why this should be so important, Lahallia could not say. She simply knew that it was—it seemed the proper way.

--SI--


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter Thirty-Two: The Cold Flame of Agnon

--SI--

Preparations for relighting the Flame of Agnon took longer than Lahallia expected, though she could not find it in herself to be displeased by the delay. Perhaps it was having lived in a library so long, where stories both true and untrue waited, and jobs done required a certain amount of time to do safely. Besides, something as important to the Isles as this Flame of Agnon _needed_ due ceremony. Otherwise there would be a sense of let-down hanging over the whole place.

Mad people, Lahallia predicted, reacted badly to senses of letdown, and disappointment. She did not want to see this disappointment firsthand.

The fallen warriors of both sides were removed from the Nadir of Despair and from Underdeep. Despite the animosity the Mazken and Aureals showed each other when both sides were alive, there was no defacing the bodies of the fallen Aureals. In fact, while they were treated separately from the Mazken dead, the Aureals were shown due reverence as honored enemies.

Perhaps, Lahallia mused as she held a cold, damp cloth to her bruising face, it was easier to show such mercies to a dead enemy than to a living one. Or perhaps the Mazken simply did not want to show themselves of similar mindset to Dremora, who took pride in the defacement of the conquered dead. This sounded in line with their characters, maintaining some sort of high ground to their actions by treating the dead well, giving themselves a reason to feel smug and superior.

Lahallia repressed a smile at this, but did not repress the sense of mild affection for the Mazken. In some ways they were as proud as the Aureals, even if they were gentler in their speech.

Lahallia was not permitted to help with the dead, though her magicka found welcome amongst the wounded. The puzzling thing in all this was that Ulfri and her second in command—a Grakella, if Lahallia heard rightly—had vanished from sight.

Unexpected, but hardly worrisome.

Still others from the Mazken garrison had cleanup duty, making sure the complex was clear of blood and the general messes a battle left behind. They were methodical about it in a way no other creature in the Isles was methodical—except perhaps the Aureals. The thoroughness and attention to detail could even warrant the word 'purifying'.

Both those laying the dead out, and those scrubbing the complex sang softly, their low voices echoing in wordless choruses Lahallia could not begin to decipher. No _canticulum_ echoing in cloistered halls amongst the lands of Nirn ever compared with the solemn reverence reverberating soulfully through Cylarne. It seemed to reach in and touch her soul with a familiarity at the same time pleasant and a little frightening.

Built as it was, the sound would echo hauntingly beautiful through the Apocrypha…except that _nothing_ echoed in the Apocrypha. Just the sounds of pages, dust and soft, library sounds. Lahallia's throat tightened, unease creeping into her stomach at the thought.

It was better to work, and listen to the Mazken, enjoying the song while it lasted. She might not have another opportunity, and wanted to fix the sound in her mind.

--SI--

Hours passed, and finally Lahallia left the Nadir in order to take in a little fresh air from the Axial Court. Despite her expectations that the sky would have assumed daylight, it remained as dark and misty as it was when she had descended into Underdeep on the heels of the Aureals.

The cold, fresh air brushed weariness from the eyes. The Axial Court housed the many shrouded shapes, each covered over with a white cloth, weighted with stones at the four corners. All the dead Aureals and those few Mazken lay with their weapons close to hand as though they merely slept beneath their white covers. From what Lahallia understood the bodies would fade as the hours passed. Even now, some of the white shrouds settled against the ground, wrinkled from the absence of the body beneath.

The voices of the Mazken, almost unheard from the Axial Court, stopped. Only then did Lahallia find the full extent of words for it, only once it was gone…and trying to describe it failed spectacularly, for no words she could find adequately expressed what she was trying to describe.

How thoroughly irritating. Especially for an Attendant, who had a large array of words at her command.

"Night has rarely lasted so long as this," Ulfri's voice announced, as she melted out of the darkness.

"I thought it lasted longer than usual." Lahallia gazed skyward. It certainly added to the ambiance of Cylarne. The lighting of the torch would have better aesthetics if the flames showed up vividly against the scenery, once Lahallia lit the torch to carry back to New Sheoth.

"The Greymarch comes…Order asserts itself." Ulfri shook her head, grim but determined to address one problem at a time. Immediate orders came first. "Were it not Order's bent to make all playing fields level—save when it comes to conquering those it has no right to—I should think we had seen the end of daylight hours."

Lahallia nodded, though she did not ask where this insight came from. It made sense, certainly. "So, night and day become fixed and regular?"

"I think they must. Which means we have no time. I should have liked to wait for the dead, absolute dead of night, when such things should happen, but I think it unwise to tarry. Come, Emissary. I should like you to witness the relighting of the Altar of Despair." Ulfri inclined her head. Yes, it was only proper the Emissary should be present, seeing as how she played such a role in the battle.

"Is it usual for mortals such as I to witness such a thing?" Lahallia asked, falling into step with Ulfri. The Mazken gave the impression of serenity, but also of barely remaining connected with the world around her, as though she was preparing to unmoor herself from existence.

"No, indeed." Ulfri shook her head. "But you are favored by our lord…and I should call it an honor to have you in attendance. You need do nothing, only watch and remember."

Lahallia nodded again, following Ulfri back down into the Nadir of Despair.

The Mazken had lit fresh fires in the shrine, all of which gave off a sickly sweet, dark scent that clouded the mind and sent strange shapes coiling in the smoke. Even the shadows seemed to curl and shift like living creatures. "There, before the altar. I shall be prepared in but a moment." Ulfri moved slowly, almost dazedly forward, as though walking into the open arms of infinity.

Lahallia, seeing how all the other Mazken were kneeling around the low basin in which the Flame of Despair would burn, knelt before it. Anxiety gnawed at her heart as she ignored the discomfort of the stone floor digging into her knees.

Ulfri returned a few moments later, wearing a long white robe over her armor, followed by a Mazken female carrying a long, lethal looking dagger in shallow box. Ulfri stepped down into the brazier, then knelt, settling comfortably, like a falcon on her handler's glove. The Mazken with the box bent to one knee, holding her burden out to Ulfri.

"Wait a moment..." Lahallia, seeing the knife and the kneeling Mazken, realized what exactly was meant by 'relit the torch'. "You can't be serious…" but the instant the words left her mouth, they sounded foolish and hollow.

Of course Ulfri was serious. The Mazken did not joke about their duties.

Ulfri arched her eyebrows. "The Altars which feed the Flame of Agnon can be kindled only by the willing death of an immortal. I have hoped for this moment since I took command of the Mazken at Cylarne." She took the knife from the Mazken holding it. The other Mazken solemnly closed the box, bowed her head, rose to her feet and retreated to Lahallia's elbow. "It is an honor, and a duty to return my soul to the embrace of Oblivion's dark waters."

Ulfri looked at the blade, as if divining the future from it. "Know that you have won the friendship of those Mazken here. We are bound by certain oaths, and for love of our lord, to serve the Duchess Syl. I should have liked to serve a Duchess such as you. We have not had so great a one in so many, many years ago. Too many years."

Lahallia lowered her head, embarrassed by this. What did she know of matters of state, or of winning a war? This was playing out in the way Lord Sheogorath wanted it to play out: to a conclusion.

The bitterness of such a long stint of poor leadership—almost no leadership at all—and then finding this mortal so well-suited for the ducal seat nearly choked Ulfri. Only now she knelt in the altar's stone basin, on the point of death did she dare speak of it. It was the closest to treason anyone had ever heard from Ulfri, though by the way many Mazken bowed their heads, the sentiment was popular and prevalent.

Lahallia grit her teeth as Ulfri raised the dagger and without hesitation, drove it into her dark throat. No sooner had the blade lodged deep in the soft tissue, sending blood cascading free of the wound, the altar lit in a flash of green light that gave no warmth.

Ulfri's body was nowhere to be seen in the blaze, not even as a dark shape near its heart.

Lahallia rose unsteadily to her feet, the flames on the Altar of Despair reaching up, but giving off no smoke. Vision pressed against her, and this time Lahallia did not fight it, but simply crashed back down to her knees.

It was over before it really started, leaving her aching from the fall and puzzled. The glimpse made no sense: a crystalline wasteland she ought to know, stretching in many directions, cutting her off from…from something. No, not cutting her off. Locking her in.

"Are you all right, Emissary?" the knife-bearer asked solicitously.

"Yes, thank you." Lahallia regained her feet without help, dismissing the Vision as quickly as she could.

"I shall take you to the Flame of Agnon, if you wish it. Or, perhaps, you would prefer to rest? You look...unwell," the knife-bearer persisted kindly.

Lahallia shook her head. "No, I must return to New Sheoth, and quickly." Seeing the Mazken take her own life so calmly, without flinching, reminded Lahallia why she did not want to stay here. It was insidious, this place. It got into your mind and blood and made you want to stay...well, she'd have none of that. She'd do what she came to do, and then back to the Apocrypha. Perhaps she'd even write a fictitious account of this place…or a realistic account, which would probably be just as interesting.

Or both. She wouldn't leave the Apocrypha ever again after this trip.

The Flame of Agnon burned in its stone bowl, beneath a stone pavilion in the Axial Court. From the Court, Lahallia could see the golden lights thrown by the Altar of Rapture, also relit. The Flame of Agnon itself burned brilliantly, though she could not say what color it actually was. Sometimes it was red with gold edges. Sometimes green with blue. Other times purple and vividest pink. It simply _was_.

"What sort of torch am I to use for this?" Lahallia asked, frowning. With everything else going on she had never really addressed this question.

"The Flame of Agnon suffers no torch," the Mazken responded, surprised. "Step into the flames—you were sent to bring them back. They will do _you _no harm."

Lahallia gaped. "Step into them…?" She glanced at the blaze, dubious about the advisability of such a thing. Fire _burned_ people.

"Of course," the Mazken frowned. "Only one who is sent for the Flame can safely carry it, for the Flame requires fuel. It is only ever a mortal who can move the Flame from its place here at Cylarne, just as it is only ever an immortal who can rekindle it. Lord Sheogorath put it down in the rules at the dawn of time. So, approach the Flame, capture it, and take it back. It is what you have come for, is it not?"

Lahallia bit her lip, then warded herself against fire. No sense taking chances—she remembered burnt fingers, if nothing else.

The Mazken laughed, but not unkindly. "I tell you, the Flames will do you no harm. His lordship has plans for you—why should he kill you on such a trivial task?"

Because it would make sense in a place where nothing made sense…or did it? Lahallia stopped her attempt to logic it out, knowing she would only end up with a headache for her efforts. Warded, she climbed up the steps to the great brazier. Raising both hands as if in surrender she hesitated, sweat beading on her forehead, though the flames gave off little heat. Swallowing hard, Lahallia put her hands into the fire, expecting to feel the searing of flesh.

The fire did not burn her, but seemed to blossom as it turned dark blue-green around her hands. But a moment later she took two steps forward without of her own volition. Standing in the brazier itself, wreathed in flames, Lahallia turned, gazing out at those Mazken who had gathered to watch. All gazed raptly at her, and when she stepped out of the brazier…the Flame of Agnon, or part of it, clung to her, a corona of flames.

The flames did not scorch the stone as she moved cautiously down the steps, nor where the grass poked up between the cobbles in the Axial Court. A strange feeling settled over Lahallia, a feeling she could not quite classify, for each time she tried it _changed_. She could only assume this strange feeling was connected with the flames flickering around her—though oddly enough, they did not obscure her vision at all.

Once she stood on the cobbles again, Lahallia found the Mazken kneeling in two somber lines, delineating a path towards the gates of Cylarne. Despite the fact their chins were bowed? to their chests, she knew they were still watching her from beneath brows and lashes. Clearing her throat, Lahallia opened her mouth, realized she had no words, then closed it, starting for the gates.

Once she reached them, she turned to face the still kneeling Mazken, struck by inspiration. It would never to to walk away wordlessly. "I thank you, for your assistance, and the courtesies you have shown me." Then, she stepped out of Cylarne, and back into Mania.

The iron gates clanged shut behind her, but Lahallia was already sweeping along the path that would take her back to New Sheoth, her head down, her will bent on getting _back to the city_. If only Sheogorath could play with perceptions of distance the way he played with day- and nighttimes.

When Lahallia looked up, what felt a few minutes later, she stopped walking. In the few minutes of travel, which should not have even taken her out of sight of Cylarne, she found herself well on the road back to the city. If travel could remain constant she could easily calculate how long it would take to get back to New Sheoth. It was preposterous, absurd, and ridiculous the way Sheogorath played with the lights, as though playing with a great lantern. Even more so the way he seemed to fold the land under people's feet—or however these speedy bursts of travel occurred.

She hated it more when he made it dark while she had to be on the road.

But she put her best foot forward and hurried along at a jog, watching the ground. She did not want to see the landscape whipping by impossibly fast, and that part of her which accepted she had gotten her wish did not want to somehow interfere with this folding of the earth beneath her feet by watching it happen.

Best to just accept it, and carry on.

Overhead dark clouds billowed, though Lahallia did not see them. She did not notice the inclement weather until a fat raindrop sizzled as it touched the Flame of Agnon wreathing her. Lahallia did not stop, but picked up her pace again, cursing her own stupidity. She looked like a massive torch, anything with eyes could see her from a great distance off—and who knew what sort of creatures lurked in the dark around here?

Certainly no mortal creature, no Mazken or Aureal would seek to waylay her—seeing an Altmer afire in such a fashion in a place like this would make even bandits seek out less unusual prey. Scalons and the like, however, could not be counted upon to possess such a sense of reason. And wouldn't it be her luck that she would somehow end up with the Flame extinguished, and have to go back and relight it herself?

--SI--


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter Thirty-Three: New Sheoth's Vigil

--SI--

Sheogorath sped her steps. Orphael suspected he would, but seeing it happen to a mortal was strange as it always was. Head bowed as if determined not to look at herself traveling much farther per step than was strictly possible, Lahallia proved so focused on where she was trying to get that she very nearly slammed into him.

And at the clip she was moving, such a collision was no joke.

Of course, the simple fact she was _aflame _made a collision something to truly worry about. The Flame of Agnon was not something about which any Mazken would joke—hence why he stood waiting outside the city for her to come back.

Lahallia abruptly stopped walking, and teetered as if about to fall—meaning Sheogorath had set her moving at a normal rate, by comparison to that used to get her back to New Sheoth in such good time. The concepts of unfixed time and unfixed distance still disoriented her, making her wish for some constant measurement—_any_ constant measurement.

"What are you doing out here?" Lahallia demanded. The wobble in her step made her flail, but it also made her notice boots and knees which, obviously, had to belong to _someone_. The strangeness of seeing the flames wrapped around her, even to her very feet made her shudder.

Orphael's vivid eyes remained fixed on the flickering flames engulfing her, as if he'd never seen them before. Certainly, it was a long time since anyone needed to _move_ the Flame of Agnon from Cylarne to New Sheoth…

Lahallia rubbed her aching neck muscles, scowling at the Mazken. Tired and irritated, she had no desire to receive needling comments from Orphael, of all people. She might not know him _well_, but she knew him _well enough_ to know he enjoyed seeing other people flustered.

Or rather, he enjoyed irritating her, which was about the same. He also had an innate gift for ruffling her temper, something to which she _thought_ she was immune. "What are you doing here?" Lahallia meant to simply stalk past him if he wanted to continue his imitation of a signpost.

Orphael blinked, then shook his head to clear it. The Flame of Agnon left brilliant spots and an Altmer -shaped shadow against his eyes. "Fishing for sky fish, obviously."

"Fishing for sky…" Lahallia looked straight up. In ap lac eliek this, nothing would surprise her, and he honestly half-expected to see strange fish-like birds in schools overhead. "You're not serious…?"

Orphael did his best not to smile at her, or laugh out loud. She looked so...innocent, almost, scanning the sky, one hand unconsciously curled as if expecting 'sky fish' to be more along the lines of 'sky sharks'. "Not usually, no. I'm waiting for you."

"For me?" Lahallia, giving one last look at the sky, just in case—it was hard to tell when he was joking, serious, telling stories or telling the truth—finally looked at the Mazken instead.

Orphael sighed. "You didn't expect Lord Sheogorath to let you wander around unattended with the Flame of Agnon…" Lahallia's expression darkened, so Orphael, rather than backtrack, forged on ahead. "I think you fail to understand. You are carrying one of the great defining features of New Sheoth—the Torch that Burns, the Chill Flame that requires immortal kindling and a mortal torch."

More than the eloquent words, Orphael gave the impression of honesty about this—a conspicuous lack of joking which made Lahallia uncomfortable. On reflection, a serious, straightforward Orphael seemed...unnatural. "Every step you have taken since you first took up the Flame has been almost…" Orphael stopped. Not _sacred_, perhaps, but as he could think of no better word for it... "sacred."

Lahallia's stomach twisted uncomfortably. Her discomfiture increased at this statement,a s did her wonder the Flame of Agnon triggered no Visions. Something like that _should_ have done so.

Orphael switched briskly to business, "And now, you'll be late…and if you show up in Dementia black, it would please us," he obviously meant the Mazken, "but it might send the wrong impressions." He raised his hands and waved. "And the citizenry here are hard to convince otherwise, once they make up their minds about something. Best to appear neutral, at least at first."

Magicka shivered around Lahallia, like too many creepy crawly things. Lahallia bore the discomfort staunchly, as her clothes turned dove-gray, though as she moved to examine the effect, found the Flame of Agnon cast funny sparkles of pink-orange light and green-blue shadows. This effect obscured as Orphael waved, a long veil, nearly to Lahallia's knees, of misty gauze settling over her head.

"I am not wearing a veil…" Lahallia announced sharply, scowling at him through its delciate haze. "I'm not getting married. I won't do it."

"Of course you are, of course you aren't, and of course you _will,_" Orphael answered the three sentiments in order, causing Lahallia to choke, for her mind was still on 'I'm not getting married'. "You are on your way to a major event—Lord Sheogorath has placed me in charge of seeing that you get there, and that you get there in a manner that doesn't embarrass _him_." Orphael stepped to one side, motioning Lahallia to proceed him. "Everyone wears them."

"_You're_ not," Lahallia noted acidly, knowing full well how big the flaw in her argument was. However, contrariness and fraying patience—not to mention the dislike of the veil—sharpening her tongue.

Orphael shrugged, unperturbed, and rather pleased at signs of spunk. As he continued, he contrived to walk so she followed, for the sake of carrying on her conversation of nothing else. Chances were, she did not even realize they were walking.

"I'm on duty, I'd look incredibly silly, and Mazken _aren't_ mortals. _We_ have to be prepared for anything. Can you imagine fighting Knights of Order in something like that?" He motioned to her clothes, as he walked sedately at her elbow. He sighed, then waved a hand, as though shooing away some pesky insect. His dark clothes changed to long, sweeping robes lined and embroidered with the dragonfly green the Mazken preferred. "But if it puts you at your ease…"

Lahallia examined his appearance critically. She would have labeled him aesthetically pleasing, if she did not have an idea of his personality. His wicked grin made her look down at her her clothes. She let out a stifled 'eep'. During the moment in which she paid no attention to her clothes, pearlescent embroidery had crept along the bodice of her dress, snaking around the hem and curling up from the cuffs. "I look ridiculous! Absolutely ludicrous!" She stopped walking, examining the outrageous garment with pained disbelief.

Orphael affected a wounded tone,"And I put so much effort into it." The more she complained, he decided, the more he would _do_ to her clothes, until she finally caught on.

Despite the fact she _knew_ he was manipulating her, Lahallia could not squash the surge of embarrassment his tone of hurt disappointment—still colored by his usual wicked humor—elicited. Gritting her teeth so as to stifle the apology before it could rise—she was _not_ going to give him the satisfaction—she swept forward without any clear idea where she was going.

Lahallia stopped at the head of the street, at which point Orphael caught up, motioning her to keep walking, as he took the lead. "Where is everyone?" Lahallia's eyes darted this way and that, taking in the dark windows, the empty streets. Even the Aureals were gone from their posts. She never expected to see a time when the Daedra of this realm left their assigned posts—except for immediate emergencies, of course.

"At the Sacellum Arden-Sul." Orphael answered. "Would you like me to explain the proceedings, or shall I let you fumble and bumble about?"

Lahallia bit down a sharp retort, recognizing the courtesy of the offer. Perhaps she did not give him enough credit as a living being. Perhaps. "Proceed, please."

"The citizens have gathered to witness the Relighting. It's an ancient ceremony Lord Sheogorath has just instated." Lahallia noticed, but did not question, the contradiction here. Orphael was well aware of it, though did not worry over such trivial matters as when a ceremony was instated. It was not his position to decide these things—thank goodness. "Once we reach the Sacellum Arden-Sul, you will, before the people, light the Flame of Agnon. You are quite free to choose for whom you wish to light it: Mania, or Dementia."

"And I suppose _you've _no preference?" Lahallia grunted.

Orphael did not let the rudeness ruffle his feathers. On the contrary, it just went to show that more and more, the pliant, docile, emotionless, completely _boring_ state the Apocrypha kept its attendants in was still wearing off. And it could not wear off fast enough. The Altmer had potential to be an interesting creature—perhaps a few more days steeping in madness would bring out her personality, like tea steeped in water. "You're in a rather touchy mood tonight. There's a festival tomorrow, and all you can think about is…"

"I'm _tired_." If Lahallia were not wrapped in magical flames, she would have stalked off, straight to Sickly Bernice's Taphouse, taken out a room and told Orphael to do something undoubtedly unflattering.

Orphael caught the genuine tiredness beneath the irritation. A sort of hopeless frustration at not being able to get away from people and rest. Able to appreciate this sort of tiredness—more of mind than body—Orphael softened his next words. "Arrangements are made."

Lahallia did not let this pacification work. "I'm also _grumpy_."

"I had noticed, and I assure you," Orphael stopped walking, frowning sternly at her. "That all will be addressed at the proper time. However, you are a public figure and you will do what is expected of you. My task is to ensure you do."

The firm gentleness of his tone sounded patronizing to Lahallia.

They glared at each other, and Lahallia found herself looking away, like a chastened child. Strong-willed as she sometimes thought herself, apparently she was not enough so to _really_ argue with this Mazken—not when his mind was made up, anyway.

"No need to look so upset," Orphael offered, more neutrally. Apparently the normal tactics of humoring mad people did not work on the mostly sane. "Trust me a little: play your part tonight, and you will not be able to complain in the morning." He started off again, leaving Lahallia to try and stop the blush rising in her cheeks at her mind's split-second interpretation of the remark. Hopefully the veil would camouflage some of that. There was nothing in his tone of double entendres, yet the words sounded far too innocent not to hide one.

Painfully unsure about how to react, her uncertainty ended in hurrying after Orphael, though warily. It was only when she caught herself admitting he was pleasing to the eyes she realized he had got her to the Sacellum Arden-Sul both quickly and quietly.

"Before you say you hate me," Orphael smirked at her. Really, she was so easy to fluster. "You should know, it really is your own fault. You shouldn't make it so easy to ruffle your feathers. Or so amusing. In you go. I'll follow." When Lahallia balked, as he knew she would, he changed tactics. "Spare me an interlude with clowns—they're Lord Sheogorath's favorite pet these days." He absently rubbed his arm, as if it pained him. "Get in there." Despite the wording and tone of a weary order, it still managed to sound like a request.

"What…did _he_ have you do while I was gone…?" Lahallia asked slowly, eyeing the Mazken.

"Nothing too horrible, I promise. In fact, once the Festival starts, I'll be happy to tell you all about it." And, seeing as her blush had still not quite dissipated, he tacked on cheekily, "...or show you..."

Before her sleep-deprived mind could make anything of this statement, one way or the other, Lahallia hurried up the stairs and into the Sacellum.

Orphael following along behind her. A better target for mildly wicked humor he had not yet found.

The Sacellum Arden-Sul, a chapel-like building which aided travel between Crucible and Bliss, was hot and stifling after the cool night air. Packed to capacity with citizens of Bliss in blood red and citizens of Crucible in dark green, with Mazken and Aureals lining the walls, effectively delineating the Manic and Demented sides of the room, expectation hung thick about the rafters.

Women in veils shorter than the one Lahallia wore, and men with deep hoods half-masking their faces turned as one as the door shut heavily behind her. It really did feel like a bizarre wedding, and had Orphael not stood behind her, blocking her escape,s he would have fled.

Orphael, the source of the slamming noise, winked at her, before setting off to join his compatriots—all of whom, Lahallia realized, wore the same sort of robes. The Aureals, too, though they wore gold and red. The complete silence in the chapel raised the hair on her neck as Lahallia stepped forward, uncomfortable with all the eyes upon her.

Two men, both dressed after the same fashion as the Daedra guards, stood in pulpits at the fore of the chapel. Between them, a stone basin where the Flame of Agnon probably burned—for Lahallia felt sure that _something_ ought to be in it, even though according to Sheogorath, the Flame of Agnon burned _above the city_.

If he didn't bother himself about contradictions, she certainly was not of a mind to. Tiredness made her eyes itch, her shoulders ache, and the stifling, hot silence of too many unnaturally silent watchers in too small a space brought out every ounce of unease, self-consciousness she ever possessed.

It was amazing how Visions remained at bay. But no sooner had the thought occurred to her, than it began to press against her mind, like a frightened dog pressing at her knees.

Orphael watched Lahallia's slow progress up to the altar. From there, she would see the alcoves, and could choose upon whose behalf she would light the Flame of Agnon.

She looked lovely in the pale silk, though she spoiled the effect with such a pasty pallor. His attempt to keep her cheeks rosy had obviously failed. She _would_ find a way to ruin her own looks. She was so contrary, but the thought made him grin. Yes, she was contrary—but so was he.

Contrary and ill-fitted for surviving in the Isles. So much so Lord Sheogorath assigned a Mazken guard to keep an eye on her. A far less horrible assignment than any he'd imagined, though her librarian's ways would surely wear his patience very thin indeed before long. Still, it beat a round with the clowns.

Lahallia noted the two alcoves before she turned to face the assembly, only vaguely aware in her queasy state, that both priests were speaking, but neither's words were distinguishable. Not to her, at least. In the back of her mind—the part not frozen with stage-fright or struggling to keep Vision at bay as it loomed above her ready to pounce—she suspected if she were to stand on one side of the other of the Sacellum she would hear one or the other of the priests quite clearly. It explained how they could both give service at the same time.

And what a headache for those unable to accept the certain…strangeness…of the way things happened within the Isles.

In the front rows on either side of the Sacellum sat Thadon, Syl, and their respective entourages. Beyond them, the citizenry. Gold or jewel-bright eyes blinked at her from the edges of the room, neutrally golden light bringing warmth from the stone, but adding chill to the rafters lost in shadow.

The two priests ceased their speaking almost immediately. Lahallia did not need to raise a hand to know she would find it shaking. The shakes were nearly convulsive. Standing in front of all these people was just what she did not want to do. She had, foolishly perhaps, expected the Sacellum empty, so she could light the fire and be gone before anyone realized what was happening.

Swallowing hard, her throat very dry she was suddenly glad of the veil, and a little sorry for being so cross with the Mazken. As surely as the veil misted her vision, it blocked from public view some of her discomfort. She glided over to the Demented side of the Sacellum, to the small alcove where a stone basin, like the one in full view of the onlookers rested, empty. Waiting.

Her hands gripped the edge of the basin, mindless of her veil pinned and tugged by the gesture. Stone and fibers dug into her hands as she gripped the basin. Vision beat against the back of her mind, resulting in real discomfort at the base of her skull, as though the muscles were pummeled by unseen fists.

Without conscious thought of anything but trying to keep the Visions at bay, the Flame of Agnon slipped off her like water, spilling into the bowl to swirl for a moment like vicious sludge of vivid white-green. The flame flared. The wailing shriek from the Manic side of the room—a sound redolent of despair and genuine woe—mingled with hurriedly retreating footsteps and the exultant shriek of misery thoroughly enjoyed from the Demented side of the room.

Without looking, Lahallia knew all eyes were off of her, the Manics stampeding out of the Sacellum, shrieking the wild lament that Dementia was best-blessed this night, that the Demented were as ecstatic as they ever got, a slow dirge with words unintelligible rising as they moved somberly out of the Sacellum.

"Lahallia?" Orphael's voice was accompanied by hands beneath her elbows, letting her know where he stood, before his hands slid down her arms to pry her fingers off the rim of the basin in which the Flame of Agnon burned, looking as tired as Lahallia felt.

The pound of Vision vanished, leaving her dizzy, drained and relieved. So much so she simply leaned back until she fell back against Orphael's chest. He succeeded in getting her fingers loose from the basin, and simply supporting her weight for a few moments.

"Is that all?" Lahallia asked, her voice as threadbare as she felt. She did not care who heard her, or saw her. Her mind spun and rattle,d as if the Flame of Agnon had leeched everything out of her, like a day spent too long in the sun.

"That's all," Orphael tugged Lahallia's veil free, slipping out of place and messing up her hair. She did not need it, now, and as she hated it, there was no point in making her wear it any longer.

"I shouldn't…feel this way..." Lahallia whispered, hating the feeling everything drained out of her. She hated it so much she had no room for remembering her general dislike of Orphael.

"Of course you should—the Flame of Agnon takes a toll, when it leaves its mortal torch." Orphael shifted, until Lahallia stood leaning against him, his arm about her shoulders. "It draws fuel to burn from you—it is an unofficial declaration of where your soul truly lies."

She did not want to think about that. Partly to maintain balance, partly for reasons she would not admit even to herself, Lahallia wrapped her arm around his waist, one of her pale hands clutched at the back of his robes for support. "Sheo…"

"Lord Sheogorath requires nothing more from you, this evening." Orphael began to walk, slowly, keeping his stride shorter than usual. Lahallia obediently shuffled her feet, so as not to be left behind. "Let me take you home."

Lahallia wordlessly nodded, letting her head drop against Orphael as he steered them out of the Sacellum, carefully down the stairs, and into the streets of Dementia. Her mind sloshed between her ears, rendering her incapable of reading anything into the words.

--SI--

Lahallia knew the house to which Orphael led her was a new addition to the city, as it was set into the divide between Crucible—where the front door was located—and Bliss, accessed by the kitchen door. She did not know how she knew about the kitchen door, seeing as Orphael walked her up the stairs as soon as he got her into the house. Nor did she question why she could see out of windows, when real windows would have given a spectacular view of the inside of the Crucible-Bliss dividing wall.

"Now what?" Lahallia asked, as Orphael helped her sit on the edge of the bed.

"Now the Manics will enjoy a good, healthy span of unrestrained mourning at your choice. The Demented will enjoy a good long festival—such as the Demented _can_ have festivals—and you, my lady," Orphael added jokingly, but perfectly serious. "Are to _rest_. Those are orders."

Lahallia felt as numb as though she'd spent the day weeping in fathomless despair. She did not say anything when Orphael got up and left the room, nor when he returned. Not until he gave her shoulder a little shake did she come out of her oddly empty state of mind.

He wore gloves. And she, she realized, no longer wore dove gray. She could only assume it turned black and iridescent green once she'd lit the Flame of Agnon. "Drink up," he pressed a goblet into her hand, watching her face carefully. Sheogorath had explained how drained lighting the torch would leave her. Drained and vulnerable—so he was to suspend all attempts to rile her, mess with her mind, or unsettle her until she could deal with it normally. In sort, to treat her as he would any of the madpeople under his protection.

Lahallia took a sip of the liquor, which went to her head immediately.

He had never understood application of the phrase 'washed out' to a living being until now. It did not quite the Demented, or the Manics. Certainly not the Manics. Hers was a colorless state, made more pronounced by the drain of the Flame of Agnon, as if all life and vitality had drained from her.

All these things would come back. Sheogorath insisted they would…but Orphael could not squash the worry that perhaps… "How do you feel?" He raised a hand to touch her pale cheek very gingerly, as though expecting her to crack, shatter, and collapse a heap of shards and dust.

"Tired…" Lahallia answered truthfully, once he took his hand from her face. Before she could think about the little jitter in the pit of her stomach the simple touch caused, she finished off the liquor in an unladylike, hearty swig.

Orphael took the empty goblet, refilled it, and brought it back, kneeling by her feet, for lack anywhere else to sit, and a desire not to _loom_ over her.

Lahallia giggled halfway through this glass, and slid off the bed, landing hard on her knees. Orphael saved her from wearing her wine by grabbing hold of the goblet, Lahallia's fingers promptly slipping off it. "I think..." Lahallia announced as her world became warm and fuzzy, "you're trying to get me drunk."

"It would appear I have succeeded," Orphael set the goblet aside. He originally intended to give her privacy, so she could take a hot bath, but perhaps it was not such a good idea. She might drown.

Lahallia settled more comfortably on the floor, leaning against the side of her bed, her skirts pooling around her. Whatever was in the goblet was strong…or maybe she was just susceptible. She did not remember the last time she found herself wholly and completely intoxicated. "And what do you plan, now that you've succeeded?" Lahallia asked too innocently to be entirely innocent, though she remained sprawled against the bed.

Orphael regarded the Altmer for a few moments, before answering truthfully. "Nothing at all." Getting to his feet, he bowed politely, and withdrew from room. Lahallia slipped out of her dress wondering _where _the question had come from.

And then to ponder what answer she _would_ have liked.

--SI--


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter Thirty-Four: Simmer

--SI--

When Lahallia returned to full awareness in the middle of the night with her insides gnawing on themselves with hunger, all she could think of was _cheese_.

And bacon.

Cheese _wrapped_ in bacon. _Lots _of it.

And despite hating cheesy breakfast foods, that was what she wanted. Unfortunately, the liquor provided hours earlier was still working, for no sooner had she tried to stand up then her knees gave way, dumping her unceremoniously on the floor, half-dressed and half-tangled in her blankets. In the few moments it took her to begin sorting out how to disentangle linens from limbs, someone knocked at the door. Clearing her throat, she straightened up, trying to look dignified.

She failed spectacularly. "Yes?" Why was it when she really wanted to look competent and capable she ended up either scared out of her wits, or suffering because someone set her drunk? Once she got back to the Apocrypha, she would certainly abbreviate _this _chapter of her narrative.

It was too embarrassing.

The door opened to reveal Orphael, looking as alert as ever. His eyes slid from the disheveled bed to the disheveled elf seated on the floor. "Have you some great liking for the floor? That's the second time I've found you sitting there tonight."

"It's very good company," Lahallia shrugged, pretending to ignore the mild sarcasm as she patted the floor affectionately with her free hand. "What's the matter…he…_he _doesn't want me just now…?" the idea of appearing before Sheogorath _now_ produced the same effect as having a bucket of cold water tipped over her head. So much so that Lahallia gripped her blanket and sheet to herself as she struggled to stand, succeeding in rising to her feet though she wobbled uncertainly. The fact she was only half-dressed finally prompted her to disentangle herself after Orphael stepped back out.

Orphael knew this was not the time to point out that she was showing far too much leg for his liking. Or, more accurately, he was liking the show of far too much leg. And being an elf…

Snapping his eyes up the face he forced himself to speak as though addressing a superior officer. "I heard a thud—I assume that was you falling out of bed."

"So it would seem." Lahallia looked around the room, her mind somewhat clearer, though not by much. Thankfully none of the signs of a hangover presented themselves, though she wondered it they would. "I hope I didn't wake you." Though still uncomfortable from the hard floor pressing her spine into funny shapes, standing up and letting it resume it's normal curves allowed Lahallia's clarity to begin creeping back. Enough, at least, to know the deadened sensation of fingers having fallen asleep was a side effect of sleeping on a hand, rather than something in the liquor, and part of the reason her attempts to disentangled herself earlier failed.

Which brought her right back to breakfast.

With cheese. Lots and lots of cheese.

"Mazken don't sleep like humans. Or elves." Sleep was, after all, a recreational activity for a Mazken. Sometimes they even _dreamed. _Still, it was hardly a necessity. How could they manage to keep the realm safe if they were snoring loud enough to wake the dead?

On reflection Lahallia decided this non-necessity of sleep was true, and not a joke. Lahallia could not remember ever catching Orphael sleeping. Not that she had tried. Lahallia nodded in agreement with herself. Lahallia shook her head to clear it. One never knew where the beginning of insanity actually lay here. She had no desire to find out, but stopped the head-clearing shake quickly. It made her brain slosh uncomfortably within her skull.

"May I ask what woke you?" Certainly nothing _he_ did, having taken to reading downstairs to fill up the hours needed for a mortal to sleep off the effects of the Flame of Agnon. As he did not know for certain, hourly checks to make sure she was still breathing were necessary—but Mazken were far from clumsy. If she could not guess she had an eye on her, for her own sake, he would not tell her. Doubtless she would raise a fuss.

Lahallia blinked guilelessly at him, cocking her head. "It's time for cheese. And bacon." She did not frown at the absurdity of the statement—for it _was _absurd, as far as her habits went—but seized upon the idea of such a breakfast.

The Isles were rubbing off on her in earnest now. Orphael could not stop the dubious grin spreading across his features. "Cheese and bacon?" Oh yes—that was one of the first signs: a desire for _cheese_. It wore off, most of the time, but almost everyone went through it.

"And cheese wrapped in…" Lahallia stopped, her mind, having lagged a few moments behind her mouth, finally catching up. "Ugh, no…cheese yes, nonsense no…" she made to wave this away, but remembered her hands were holding her bedcovers up…

Her mind cleared a little more, and began working more normally, enough for her to take in the situation competently. The rapidity of changing from sleepy pale to vividest crimson—a color which suffused even her _shoulders—_was more than enough warning for Orphael. "Supper's been warming while you were napping. I'll see to it." He closed the door before the shriek he could see building up could erupt from her mouth.

Clearly she was still well under the influence of the liquor. Speaking of which, he could use a glass himself. She was so scatterbrained, but he smiled, unusually indulgent of a usually irritating behavior. Perhaps because Attendants were not the model of scatterbrained silliness.

If he was honest, and as he walked down the stairs he considered showing honesty, he would admit he had wrongly ordered the priorities in getting Lahallia back to what Lord Sheogorath would call normal. Normal meaning the point at which she could go do whatever else it was Lord Sheogorath wanted her to do. He, Orphael, _should_ have told her to bathe first, then got dinner—which he had ordered from Bliss, as all Crucible was 'celebrating', though to an outsider it looked like a group of mourners—and _then_ let her drink herself to sleep.

Clearly the wine on an empty stomach sent it all to her head, and now look where they were. She was tipsy, and he was thinking things no Mazken had any business thinking about one of Lord Sheogorath's chosen. And—he nipped this thought in the bud—it was all Lord Sheogorath's fault.

If _he_ had not made it plain Orphael was not to think in that direction at all, the Mazken would never have considered it. But unprofessional thoughts were, by now, streaming in, and he could only hope this would cease, once he was free to needle her to annoyance again. Otherwise he would find himself in a very tight spot. Or at least, an uncomfortable one.

Speaking of 'again', there were no second chances where mortals were concerned, and if he didn't get back up those stairs—whose idea was it to put stairs in this house?—she was liable to kill herself falling down them. The woes of Lord Sheogorath's Chosen Babysitter would never end, or so it seemed as Orphael trooped up the stairs to make sure Lahallia did not kill herself.

The thought left him feeling indulgent of the Altmer's almost helpless condition. An indulgence bordering on fondness, really.

--SI--

A bath and breakfast left Lahallia feeling mostly elven and Orphael mildly amused. She had displayed unusual foresight for someone still a little silly from the drink to magically lock her own door before bathing. Orphael's amusement came from the fact she was obviously feeling less washed out than the previous night, because _she'd_ teased something unmerciful this morning. The skill she showed in the mild needling, the eloquent looks brought her up in Orphael's estimations.

Unfortunately this light-hearted mood could not last. The compulsion to bring her to Lord Sheogorath, an inkling of an idea once she'd woken up blossomed in his mind to a full-blown order. Orphael's confusion arose from evidence that Lord Sheogorath did not want to see Lahallia in his court, but at the Sacellum Arden-Sul.

Which left Orphael uneasy, as he sipped his water. Lord Sheogorath was up to something, and as he listened to Lahallia explaining about…he wasn't sure what she was explaining about. He stopped listening earlier, the better to brood, and lost track of the subject much earlier. Still, her soporific tones, the softly-uttered words in a definitely librarian's voice,made good background sounds for thinking.

"Lord Sheogorath wants to see you today, now you're rested and recovered," Orphael announced, once Lahallia paused to draw breath.

Lahallia's stomach clenched as she finished raising the forkful of eggs to her mouth, her good humor melting like snowflakes. Her stomach wobbled, making her wish she had not needed breakfast at all. If Sheogorath played any tricks with perception of space, she was in trouble. "I expected as much. I'm surprised he didn't want to see me last night."

"He values your health." More than, perhaps, though Orphael said nothing to that effect. Lord Sheogorath had plans for Lahallia, big plans, if she was given a Mazken guard to keep an eye on her. Not all Sheogorath's Chosen received such an honor, for it showed a certain dedication to keeping them alive. For awhile, anyway.

Lahallia chewed her eggs longer than necessary to give herself time to think this over. No, Sheogorath did _not_ really care about her health—he cared insomuch as she was useful, and he wanted her to _remain_ useful. Other than that, he did not care brass buttons about _her_. "I wondered why you've been so amiable."

Orphael smirked at her, toying distractedly with a fork he wasn't using. "It won't last. I suspect things will return to routine before long." The silence on Order's forefront left him uncomfortable. And, of all the strangeness in a strange realm, his right arm now tingled at odd moments. The feeling was subtle, inconsistent. He made the conscious choice to ignore it, the way he would ignore any injury he _could_ ignore. Still, it refused to be wholly ignored. It did not become painful, but remained uncomfortable.

It might even affect his ability to use a sword competently.

Lahallia's voice shattered Orphael's second reverie. "Routine? _Here_?" Lahallia set the fork down, not feeling very hungry now a meeting with the insane Daedric Prince loomed before her.

"Of course," Orphael tried to lighten the darkening mood, giving his hand a shake in an attempt to dispel the buzzing in his fingertips. "You're surrounded by crazy people or," he added quickly with a paranoid glance around the room, "I should say those gifted by Lord Sheogorath…"

"I won't tell him you slipped up." Lahallia's indulgence was not limited to feeling comfortably full of egg and cheesy toast—which normally constituted a revolting mess not considered edible in her books. Fortunately, any babble was little more than something to do while she thought, paying little attention to the words actually coming out of her mouth, to divert her mind to other things while her mouth ran.

Like the question of why Orphael was babysitting her. She could not quash the suspicion he had not intended to set her drunk. In fact, she chalked this up to a lapse of judgment, and it was good to know the Mazken sometimes had them. Somehow, it made his company more tolerable, made the way he annoyed her—though admittedly he had made no genuine bids to do so recently—easier to bear.

It was hard to stay angry with someone dumb enough to set you drunk. She did not remember what exactly she'd said, but she did have the impression she'd managed to catch him off guard. Well, it was good for him. Taking a sip of her water, she regarded the Mazken over the rim of her goblet.

And he wasn't bad-looking.

She gave herself a mental shake. What a thought to have, with forces of Order crawling all over the place and so much to do. Why…

"Are you all right?" Orphael demanded, rather sharply, as the color drained from Lahallia's face so quickly he worried she might faint. Worried, because Lahallia was not the type of woman to faint over nothing.

She did not answer right away, but conjured her recently-absent catalogue, and began rifling through it, though rather than looking terrified, her expression settled to mere puzzlement.

"_Are_ you all right?" Orphael repeated, unwilling to let her simply not answer the question.

"Strange…" Lahallia flicked through the pages, feeling only a detached worry that the record therein was not as thorough as it should be. The disconnected sense of unease was not the same color-draining terror she'd experienced to briefly a moment ago. In fact… "It seemed so important once and now…" she began flicking through the empty pages. Melancholic apathy with regards to writing down everything she could about the Isles settled like snow over her mind.

Orphael watched the empty pages flick past, one by one, his heart leaping. If this disinterest in her precious catalogue, the one-great Apocrypha artifact—and the accompanying lack of the pen, or frenzied note-taking to try and bring the book up to speed—proved beyond doubt she was truly freeing herself from the Apocrypha's dusty influences.

Which would please Lord Sheogorath.

Now if he could just find a way to make her _not_ go back to the Apocrypha. To make her stay here—that was very important. Lord Sheogorath wanted it. Orphael himself maintained a very poor opinion of the Apocrypha, so anyone defecting was more than welcome, as far as he was concerned.

Though he was not sure why, and the buzzing in his fingers began to do so more pronouncedly, all of a sudden. His hand twitched.

"You'll get Order dust all over you." Orphael nettled to break her out of her reverie, eyeing the book with distaste as he massaged his hand.

"What's wrong with your hand?" Lahallia looked up from the book, ignoring the subtle jab at her profession. Surely, knowing Orphael's disposition for acting disagreeably, she could ignore such commentary. It could not hurt her anymore than the Apocrypha itself—despite the inherent dangers of working and living there. Danger was a risk in almost any of the Oblivionic Realms.

"Nothing, it's just buzzing a little. An old injury, maybe." It should not bother him, and he knew it. Injuries _healed_ when passed through the Waters of Oblivion, even as memories slipped from the mind. If he let himself, he worried as to why this one still troubled him.

"Are you sure?" Lahallia set her catalogue aside, glad for something else to pay attention to. ""I can look at it, if you like."

Orphael opened his mouth to tell her it really was nothing, just one of those things. When he actually _spoke_, he said, "If you must." He worked to unfasten his sleeve, but Lahallia shooed his hand away.

"You've started wearing gloves."

True enough, black gloves now encased his hands, the courtesy of which was not lost on Lahallia. "If I'm to work closely with a Seer, it seemed appropriate."

"Thank you." With this, she carefully rolled his sleeve back before tugging his glove off. Below the elbow his arm looked stained, darker than the rest of him. Even his fingernails bore the odd discoloration. Despite the voice in the back of her head screaming that he was a _Daedra_, and therefore very likely to set off Visions, Lahallia lifted his hand.

Orphael watched her manipulating his fingers, then twisting his wrist gently, palpating up his forearm as if looking for signs of stiffness or…or what?

"Is this a unique sort of injury, as it's so extensive?" Lahallia asked, cradling Orphael's elbow in her hands after guiding his wrist to rest on her shoulder. Curiosity examination with a spell from the School of Restoration did not give any clear idea what the injury was, or where it came from. Almost as though it was innately part of him, like joint pains as one got older.

Orphael considered this for a few moments. "No. Yes."

Lahallia stifled a grin, but her mismatched eyes danced almost impishly. "Well? Which is it?"

"Yes. It's unique…" Orphael's voice came low and hoarse. The nagging, uncomfortable feeling of having forgotten something, something important looming over him. Making him feel…_hunted_…_haunted. _Suddenly dry-mouthed, he swallowed hard. "It doesn't matter," his words came out almost in a drunken slur, which made Lahallia jump, startled. "It was in the service of Lord Sheogorath." As everything was—why should she make such a fuss anyway? The injury, or whatever it was, did not effect his ability to carry out his duties, so she should not concern herself over it.

Yet, he did not say any of this. It was not her fault that her attempts to help only served to rile his peace of mind. One got used to it in mad people. He ought to have expected similar from a going-mad person.

Biting her lip, Lahallia ran her forefinger along the underside of his forearm. She recognized the dismissal of the topic altogether. But the question of what _could_ affect a Mazken when they were supposed to return from the Wellspring—whatever that was—healed and ready to serve did not make sense. Little nicks, scrapes, scratches and scarring she could understand.

But something so extensive. "Are you sure?"

"Of course." Orphael answered placidly. A little too placidly.

The sudden lack of discernible personality, the sense of looking at a carved replica of the Mazken made Lahallia uneasy. She also understood the innate dismissal both of the subject, and her examination. Furthermore, Orphael looked like someone retreating deep into his own thoughts. It came across so clearly she reached up with her free hand and laid her fingertips against his cheek, very hesitantly indeed. "Are you all right?"

Orphael jerked, reaching up to stop the funny sensation against his face, surprised at capturing the thing, especially as it turned out to be Lahallia's gloved fingers. The feeling of something brushing his face had been her glove slipped against his cheek when she'd reached out.

A double surprise, seeing as she usually avoided any physical contact. Her worried expression peered up at him from her place at the table. "Of course," he added, sounding much more himself. He pulled her hand away from his face. "You should really be more careful, Seer. It's been a good morning so far…we wouldn't want to spoil it."

Lahallia appreciated the sentiment of sparing her the Visions, even rendered so bluntly, almost glibly. She would have loved to have one right now, but only if it showed her what he'd done to his arm in the first place. "It looks like it must have hurt." Freeing her hand, she rolled his sleeve back down, fastening it at the wrist.

"Perhaps. But I have no memory of it." So why did it seem so important? It _did_ seem important, had, even before Lahallia took a look at it.

Lahallia's gaze fell upon their hands, his still palm up on the table, hers palm down nearby. "Perhaps that's for the best." She was not sure, initially, if he discerned the words in the mumbled sentiment.

"Perhaps it is. Are you ready to meet with Lord Sheogorath?" Orphael pushed back his chair, getting to his feet. "He'll be angry if he has to wait too long."

"Yes…" Lahallia rose as well. "What time is it?"

"Early. Still dark—the citizens are celebrating, if you can call it that." Orphael could have sworn Lahallia smiled fondly at this, though if she did, the look came and went quickly.

If he could just persuade her what sort of place the Apocrypha really was…he could make her stay. She needed to stay. _It was important. _

_She needed to stay. _

He would have to find a reason.


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter Thirty-Five: Talking Treason

--SI--

Orphael stopped outside the Sacellum Arden-Sul so abruptly he might have walked into a wall. With the darkness still clinging, Orphael blended in all too well with his surroundings. When Lahallia stopped, he answered her question before she could ask it. "He wants you. Not me. I'm to wait here." This did not bother him much, though given the sudden change in Lahallia's face it bothered her. An Altmer probably would find such a meeting not to her comfort, though it would not bother a Mazken in the slightest. He squelched the usual Mazken pride—it would not do to irritate Lahallia too much before she went in to see Lord Sheogorath.

Lahallia's comfort in Orphael's presence vanished at these words,. Her head cleared further at the idea of another Haskill-Sheogroath-herself meeting. She hated feeling out numbers, and it brought home what she had taken for granted: that Orphael would come with her, since Sheogorath obviously meant him to keep an eye on her. To help her when he could, to keep her from 'getting boring' when he couldn't actually _help_. Method—or rather routine—in madness, and Lahallia had not realized it until she no longer had it. Aside from anything else, it was nice not to feel wholly outnumbered, even if, technically—and an Attendant lived by technicalities—Orphael belonged to Sheogorath as much as anything else in this realm.

"Should I be afraid?" She could not remember the last time she asked this question, but it came out now. Sheogorath and his lack of predictability _did_ frighten her, to her surprise. She _thought _life in the Apocrypha suited her to polite meetings with Daedric Princes...apparently not.

Orphael's eyebrows rose. "Does he frighten you?" Such an admission was not only unexpected…it made him wish Lord Sheogorath wasn't insisting so powerfully that this _conversation be private_. No eaves-dropping. Or someone would find _eves dropping. _Right square on their heads. Furthermore, it showed progress in peeling off her dusty shell of Apocrypha life.

Lahallia considered lying for a moment, but in the end did not. "Yes." She had not so much pride that she could not admit to feeling fear—although it puzzled her, for she could not remember the last time she felt _fear _like this.

"He has plans for you. What they are, I cannot say." But it had to do with the Greymarch. It had to do with Order. And why Lord Sheogorath couldn't leave it to his Mazken, or even the Aureals…Orphael's hand buzzed uncomfortably.

"_Should_ I be afraid?" Lahallia asked again, trying to squelch the discomfiture it caused.

He wished he could tell her 'no', truthfully. Lying to her would not help. It might even do more harm than good. "He's a Daedric Prince. Yes. I'm afraid so."

Lahallia gave a nervous laugh. Perhaps she had more pride than was healthy, stemming from her long service within the Apocrypha. Still, the sense of waking up after long dreaming puzzled her. "Thank you."

Orphael nodded, watching her continue up to the heavy oak doors. She did not look back, but vanished into the old building. His eyes returned to the door of the house, which remained fixed in place, unassuming except that it was built into the dividing wall between Crucible and Bliss. On the cusp.

Much like Lahallia herself.

--SI--

The Sacellum was empty. Not even the priests were present. The only light came from the Flame of Agnon on the Dementia side of the chapel, casting greenish light and blackest shadows. Sheogorath stood before the altar, though with his back to her, evidently focused on the Flame of Agnon burning brightly. The sense of some great hulking power using the human shape as a puppet intensified with the deep shadows.

"Well!" The voice boomed from behind Lahallia, making her jump. In the moment of blinking, Sheogorath had slipped around to stand behind her. "Still skittish, still jumpy. Maybe you'd like to be a frog for a few days? Teach you when to jump and when to hold your ground. You'll need to know the difference eventually…" Sheogorath prattled, but his eyes were hard, and the grin he wore for her initial reaction grew hard, menacing.

Someone, Lahallia thought acidly despite her fear, woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

"Pity there isn't _time_." Sheogorath was back at the altar, as though he'd never moved, balancing his staff in the palm of his hand, wathcing it wobble. "Now, we get to the killing business! The Greymarch is upon us, and the Ordering begins. Armies of Order sweep my realm. Death. Destruction. Then I have to pick up the pieces." He tossed his staff and caught it, as though ready to clobber someone with it. Lahallia suspected he would have clobbered _her_, if she was in reach. "And there are always lots of pieces."

Abruptly Lahallia found herself standing by his elbow, between him and the Flame of Agnon. The light and shadows cast by it played weirdly across his face, but unlike mere minutes before something changed. She no longer felt as though she regarded a puppet, but a marionette—something on strings, rather than controlled directly by hidden hands. As though the puppet she could see had grown and the puppeteer she couldn't had shrunk.

"I don't like it, having to rebuild my realm every era. I forget where things go. Like New Sheoth. I can never remember where it belongs..." his brow creased. "And maps are only reliable as long as they're accurate…but when all's ash and ruin, what _is _accurate? And who _has_ maps to begin with?"

Accuracy? In _this _realm? Not even time stood still…time. Lahallia met Sheogorath's golden eyes, something like a sense of danger prickling up her spine. "It was a very long night, my lord." Unless she merely slept through the daylight hours, but somehow...she did not think so.

"_Was_ it?" Sheogorath's tone, almost serious, raised gooseflesh on her arms. Lahallia had never heard so much innuendo crammed into two words. She immediately colored.

"Distractions later! Business now! Yes, it was a long night. _The_ Long Night. It means things are happening! And not nice things. _You'll _change that," he poked her sharply in the shoulder with his staff. Vision rose like a dragon ready to breathe fire but subsided so quickly it left Lahallia feeling lightheaded and wishing she'd not had breakfast. Doubtless what Sheogorath intended. "_You'll_ stop Jyggalag, and the Ordering, and _I'll_ have my realm to come back to. I've never actually tried that before."

"Can I? Stop the Greymarch, I mean…" Lahallia could not stop the words. So much so she wondered if Sheogorath hadn't put her under a minor compulsion to _say _them.

"_You _mean 'if a Daedric Prince can't do it'. Smart of you not to _say_ it…but I can see what you're thinking. You're thinking this is a chance to make a desperate bid in a mad scramble for power! Who doesn't like power? It's lovely on pastries!" Sheogorath's eyes, shrewd and hard, glittered malevolently.

Never mind the word he wanted was 'powder'. Lahallia did not back up, much as she wanted to, but she did not like the way this conversation was going. And the conundrum of Jyggalag's very existence bothered her. If he was not destroyed—as everyone seemed to think—then...what? Had he shattered some well-constructed prison? Used Mehrunes Dagon's recent activity to hide his bid for escape?

"But, this is all new!" Sheogorath boomed jovially, slapping her over the back. Again Vision rose and subsided. "A fresh idea! Something I hadn't thought of, until I did. It's sure to work, even though it might not."

Rather than assuring him it would work—and risk him threatening her guts—or complaining (and risk him literally ripping off her head), Lahallia sighed. "What can I do?" Just straight down to business. Somehow the statement that _she _would save the realm did not exactly surprise her.

The fear of this would set in later, she was sure. Right now she merely felt caught between the feeling of having spent all day filing manuscripts, and fear of what harm might befall her during Sheogorath's psychotic moments.

"Now? You'll need the respect of my citizens. They'll need a leader, someone to look up to when I'm gone. They're the backbone of any great land." Sheogorath waved expressively. "Except where the backbone is an actual backbone…"

Lahallia knew what was coming, and why Orphael was not permitted to join this little talk of treason. Because it was treason. Or might be, for a Mazken. She could see where this was going, without Sheogorath having to speak any further.

But she would risk Hermaeus Mora's displeasure before she would risk Sheogorath's, at this moment. Hermaeus Mora was in the Apocrypha, and she was in the Shivering Isles—under Sheogorath's thumb. Put her back where she belonged, her her priorities could go back where _they_ belonged.

"...ever been to Malacath's realm? Nasty stuff. But, back to the business at hand." Sheogorath twirled his staff so quickly it became a blur in his hand. "You'll need to control one of the Courts of Madness." Lahallia stifled a groan, and any outward sign of disappointment. There really were times when a person could hate being right. "Replace a current Duke. Or Duchess. Whichever. _That_ will command respect! The people will _rally_ around you. You'll have their love, their admiration, their _complaints_! Whatever. As long as it keeps them on _our side_."

The not-so subtle threat made Lahallia's skin prickle, to the point she shifted and squirmed as though her skin were crawling _off_. "Won't the current regime be…displeased?" Particularly if they were still…Lahallia shuddered. She did _not _want pictures of overly amorous Bosmer scuttling about in her mind like cockroaches in a forgotten closet.

"No," Sheogorath sounded absolutely shocked by this question surprised that she might think the current regime would object to a demotion probably involving the severance of soul and body . "No, no, no. Absolutely not."

Sheogorath tittered wickedly after a moment. "Well...all right. Yes. Absolutely. Bit of a shame for _them_. But, sometimes you need to break a few eggs. Or skulls. Or eggskulls. There are _rules_, though. Even in the Isles. Rituals and rules."

Thank goodness! Sense and reliability at last! Though Lahallia constrained her joy at the prospect. Doubtless something was left out of this explanation which might otherwise dismay her.

"You need to follow them. Speak to Arctus and Dervenin." Sheogorath waved a hand distractedly. Both priests looked worse for wear as they entered from the doors to their respective district of the city. "_They_ can explain what needs to be done. _I_ will wait for you to choose." Sheogorath obviously meant her to come to a decision quickly for he walked halfway down the middle aisle and sat down, a chair appearing beneath him, Haskill off to one side.

Just like home, Lahallia sighed to herself. Ignoring the intense scrutiny of the Daedric Prince and his caimbrlain, Lahallia made the hastiest decision of her life.

Syl had to go.

There was no way she would willingly surround herself with Aureals. Of course, killing Syl would end up no mean feat—the woman was beyond paranoid. She certainly could not count on the Mazken to help her, whatever they said about wanting someone like her as a duchess. None of them would let her just walk in and enact her hostile takeover. No—they'd be pleased once it was all _over_, and Syl wasn't threatening to flay the skin off their backs...but they had a duty, and would carry it out, even if it hurt.

No. The realization stopped Lahallia in her tracks. No, _Relmyna _would flay them alive, Syl would just kill them. If _anyone_ needed to go, it was Relmyna. The thought was so off-topic with regards to her current duties that it worried her far more than any drifting nonsense about cheese, bacon, clouds or clowns.

--SI--

Sheogorath, attended by Haskill, watched as the elf consulted the priests. He was keenly aware of the Mazken—that nosey, wonderful little distraction—poking about outside, waiting not-so-patiently for the elf to reemerge. The boy worried, which was good. The boy had better be more careful, lest he upset all the plans buzzing like little honeybees in the air of the Isles. And he could afford to be a little nicer—but only if he could do it without getting boring.

So many plans—and so many revolved around this Altmer; this painfully mundane creature. Admittedly the Isles were finally starting to noticeably corrode the Apocrypha's influences, but now was a time for worrying. When Sheogorath worried, the whole realm worried, Mania and Dementia alike. He could feel it, like sand slipping through an hourglass. Little moments of stark gray lucidity tearing holes in the mishmash of color and thought usually occupying his mind.

Yes, it was a new plan, and yes, he was right to allow Azura to pick his champion. The only problem was this champion's loyalty. It might have been better if she _wasn't_ a Seer, but even a Daedra's power only went so far. Otherwise he'd have carved that pesky, distracting Inner Eye out with a spoon ages ago. Or minutes.

Or maybe right now.

These foolish Visions distracted her, keeping some plans from moving forward, making her hesitant, wishy-washy. These were the plans he _needed _moving, too. Distractions came later, after all. And he would need her distracted at some point. For the good of the Isles.

Sheogorath's weathered hands, at odds with the well-tended nails, twirled his staff. It would be different. This time it would be _very_ different…and the time drew near when he would have to see how different.

Or else it was back to picking up all those little, tiny pieces.

"Well? You're back!" Sheogorath stood up, Haskill and his throne vanishing abruptly. "How nice for you. Does that mean you've made a decision? Or are you lost? Suicidal? Just let me know."

Lahallia could not help sighing, though mostly from her upcoming task, not from Sheogorath's inane babble. She expected difficulty in removing Syl. She almost wished she could hire one of the Dark Brotherhood elite, whoever they might be. Come to think of it, she was not even sure the Brotherhood could or _would_ operate in this region. Which meant she had to do it herself. "I'll take the Court of Dementia."

At least her opponent was a Bosmer. The old sense of Altmer superiority reasserted long enough to encourage Lahallia. She had a good advantage at the outset. Syl's paranoia might make her sloppy.

Lahallia did not get sloppy—Attendants learned not to be sloppy. She only hoped she wouldn't need to flatten too much of the Mazken garrison in the process.

Sheogorath smiled, a cunning, twisted smile of sinister plans falling into place. Well, maybe worries over this Altmer not playing her role properly, despite no one having spelled it out for her—mortals were so tiresome sometimes—were overemphasized.

If she'd chosen to remove Thadon, it would have _seriously_ upset things. Imagine Syl without Thadon. Thadon without Syl was like...well, Syl's bad days affected many people. Imagine how a worst day would end up.

"A dangerous choice. I like it! She's gotten to be a bit much, anyway." _Everyone_ thought so, and with good reason. Even Mazken, loyal little stooges to the bitter end, got tired of the Duchess knifing them in the back. The citizenry feared her, feared her inquisitions, and that little toad Herdir. Sheogorath suspected Herdir would not have to worry about anything soon, either. Quite a coup. Out with the old in with the new. "Thinks everyone is out to get her. Which they are, in this case. So be it."

Lahallia's stomach squirmed with apprehension. The idea of killing Syl was not so repellent as, say, killing off a Mazken, or that strung out lecher Thadon. The idea of hacking Syl's death-stilled heart from her body disgusted her. Then, there were the Mazken of the New Sheoth garrison—and whether Sheogorath wanted Syl removed or if he was neutral about the task, Lahallia knew this would not be like Cylarne.

This was something he would not interfere in. She was on her own, proving to him, to the Mazken, to the citizenry she had what it took to seize power, and retain it.

"Off you go. You've got a lot of work ahead of you." Sheogorath grinned. "And time grows short."

What was it with all these conditions, time constraints and hassles? Some days it seemed as though Sheogorath made them up just to inconvenience her. Perhaps why Haskill so often looked so put upon.

Lahallia inclined her head respectfully, turned, and marched out of the Sacellum, into suddenly bright daylight to find Orphael waiting for her. His posture radiated nerves, and she actually saw him bite down a question about what had happened.

Orphael knew that, whatever it was Sheogorath had commanded Lahallia to do, it preyed on her mind. The frequent glances she kept casting in his direction left him uneasy. It was as if she expected him to turn on her suddenly, and without reason. The subtle mistrust stung—surely there was no reason for it.

Lahallia did not speak, as Orphael walked with her back to the house, except to ask—and it was phrased as a request—that he not bother her. She had thinking to do.

Thinking, plotting and possibly shopping. She did not want to fight Syl face-to-face, if she could just poison the other mer. In fact, Lahallia mused, sitting down on the edge of her bed, the more distance she kept between Syl and herself the better.

Orphael gave Lahallia the quiet time to think she wanted, though it frayed at his nerves. He was not sure what Lord Sheogorath's latest task for her was, though apparently it was unpleasant.

A prick of annoyance accompanied the thought she _could_ ask him for help. Blast the pride of Altmers and Attendants.


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter Thirty-Six: Apprehension

--SI--

Lahallia was up to something. Orphael knew it. The problem was, whatever she was up to appeared so top secret she not only refused to tell him anything, she took to locking herself in her room, or vanishing without so much as an 'I'll be back before supper' for hours on end. Not that he was the person to talk to about supper—he'd had the inns on either side of the city taking care of catering. Mazken, were soldiers. Sometime babysitters.

They were not chefs.

Still, the secrecy left him edgy, almost fidgety. No doubt remained that, whatever she was planning, he would not find out what it was until it was too late to do anything about it. All he could do was hope whatever it was would not somehow land him in a clown pit.

Despite Orphael's opinion the situation, Lahallia did not mean to give such a fantastic show of inscrutable motives. Far from it, her intent being to appear every inch the Apocrypha attendant, working with the same focus and attention to detail she usually exhibited while doing this, that or the other thing. While such behaviors came across as exemplary behavior within those gray walls, in the Isles she looked like a textbook resident of Dementia: obsessive, secretive, and uncommunicative. Far removed from any sense of relative normalcy.

This, the fourth night since bringing back the Flame of Agnon to New Sheoth—and while the day-night balance was not yet wholly fixed, they tended to occur in blocks of no less than six hours, though no more than eight. So far.

Plainly as the Forces of Order amassed wherever they were, pending the invasion into the Isles via the crystalline spires, their very nature began to affect the Isles themselves. Doubtless sooner or later the balance of day and night would echo that of Nirn. Or, she flicked through her notes, scribbling towards the back of her catalogue which she'd dug out so as to keep her gathered information from falling into the wrong hands, they'd simply balance out with a certain number of hours each of light and darkness.

Glancing at the timepiece moved from the dining room to her bedroom, Lahallia got to her feet. It was still not reliable with regards to light and darkness, but as a clock it seemed to function more or less as she expected it to. Which was to say, time did not move at speed, or crawl along like an injured creature.

Sixty minutes to an hours, twenty-four hours in a day.

The light outside hinted at late afternoon. Restlessly, Lahallia walked back over to the small desk, covered in preparations for disposing of Syl. It had taken the better part of four days—and quite a bit of energy went into trying to keep Orphael's nose out of current events—to come up with a plan that bordered on feasible. Revision raised the probability of success. As for Orphael, she simply could not trust him not to try stopping her, since the Mazken _were _under mandate to protect and serve House Dementia.

This came directly from Orphael, during a long conversation in which she wormed out of him quite a bit of information. She might lack charisma, but she knew how to elicit information. Not only had she learned necessary information for her mission, she learned quite a bit more about the Mazken in general. It had become something of a routine to sit in the living room, each with a drink in hand, and either watch the magical fire burning in different colors in comfortable silence, or watch the fire and talk. It was during these conversations she discovered that a liking for teasing and getting other people riled up might just be Orphael's worst habit.

That and needling her about the Apocrypha, but thankfully he'd not mentioned it recently. She did not think for a moment he'd given up on trying to get her to agree it was 'a bad place'. He was simply biding his time, waiting to try and ambush her with the topic when she least expected it. Still, she could think of many worse habits than a liking of acting contrary, and teasing poor, easily riled mortals.

It was then, as she stood there grinning to herself, she realized she did not really mind. She had the impression that when Orphael drew his wits like a warrior drew a sword, he was not used to being bested. She might find herself lacking in many social skills, but she enjoyed trying to tip his arguments off balance.

But, she yanked her thoughts back to the gruesome business in the works, battles of wits would not affect Syl in the slightest. No, what would affect Syl—Lahallia raised Malice, checking the fresh edge Cutter had put on it earlier in the day—was cold steel.

Or rather, crafted amber. Malice was useful, but this was cloak-and-dagger work. She approved the irony of using a Manic weapon to slay the Duchess of Dementia. It also appealed to her to kill Syl in the manner Syl most feared: assassination as opposed to a head to head fight.

With these things in mind, Lahallia had braved Dumag's overly helpful company in order to acquire what had to be the perfect weapon or the job: a curved dagger of amber and gold. He'd had it on hand, and added extra keenness to the blade. The weapon was far too small for the Orc, but fit Lahallia's hand reasonably well.

Lahallia fingered the sheathed amber blade. Tonight. It had to be tonight. Orphael had, the 'night' before last, let slip that the Mazken garrison expected a changing-out. This happened periodically, and was scheduled to happen before Lahallia ever set foot in the Isles. Syl demanded such a change in staffing out of paranoia, hoping to derail any plots against her by sending the traitors away, forcing them to start their plans all over again at a later date.

Lahallia snorted: ridiculous. Definitely the product of a deranged mind. However, it worked in her favor.

The Mazken capitulated as it relieved those unfortunate enough to pull Palace duties of having to deal with Syl more than…well, Orphael failed to articulate what the time frame for the changing of the guard was, though he did say that the guard was changed regularly and one-third of the force at a time. Which meant tonight would see more Mazken in the garrison than unusual, but rather than meaning increased security, it implied _lessened _security, as they would spend much of the night passing duties from one soldier to another.

Syl would doubtless hole herself up somewhere with only one way in, and one way out. This put her in the position of a cornered rat, though the Duchess didn't know it, or chose not to notice. Syl suspected _everyone _of treason. Word in the palace was, Syl continued to grow more and more paranoid. The only reason she had not yet tried to put a dagger between Lahallia's ribs—or asked Herdir to do it, Lahallia grimaced at the thought of the little toad—came down to Lahallia's great care in staying out of Syl's way and out of sight.

Which complicated her _other _plans. Gold, promises of safety and security, and several _very_ powerful charm spells yielded subtle allies in the forms of Anya Herrick and the Redguard Kithlan. Both were, by now, worried Syl's growing paranoia might target them next. With a sense of self-preservation for a basis, Lahallia applied gold, tact, and magicka to manipulate the situation to her advantage. Anya promised to draw away as many Mazken as she could, by starting a commotion shortly after nightfall—Lahallia specified tonight as the night for doing so—thus clearing Lahallia's way somewhat, and keeping it clear.

Kithlan gave far more practical help. He gave her his key to House Dementia, letting Syl's death in by the front door. Lahallia was not much good at mountaineering, and certainly not at scrambling up the sides of buildings. She preferred the idea of going in by the front door.

And still, Syl remained none the wiser. Lahallia had cautioned both Anya and Kithlan to keep themselves as far from Syl's rooms as possible, to avoid drawing suspicion. She did not need to promise dire consequences if she found herself betrayed. She did not think this was a concern, yet. Not when Syl seemed so eager to root out traitors and plots, whether they existed or not.

Between the Greymarch and Lahallia's rise in Sheogorath's favor—or her perceived rise in favor—Syl's already tenuous remnants of sanity only eroded further. Sooner or later, Syl would snap. Everyone knew it, and those approached were willing to jump ship before it sank, throwing their lot in with Syl''s would-be successor.

Lahallia could not work out how to manipulate a psychological breakdown to her advantage, but if she could she certainly would. Meeting Syl head on was not only stupid, it was deadly. It also meant not making a good show-for surely Sheogorath kept himself aware of what was going on. She did not wish to bore him.

But, for all Syl's cunning, there were certain advantages to being a librarian, and that advantage pooled in a small glass bottle on a cord, not unlike the small bottles ladies in the realms sometimes carried, so as to refresh their perfume during a fete. The perfume originally in the bottle ended up in a much more mundane potion vial, hidden in her dresser.

The poison worked best if taken via the mouth, the stomach absorbed the poison better than anything else, but Syl was too crafty for something like that. It would work well enough if administered through a nick in the skin.

Lahallia jumped as Orphael knocked on her door. "Are you awake?" He called softly. If she _was _sleeping, he would not have wakened her.

"No I'm sound asleep. What do you want?" She did not panic, trying to hide her implements. Such would make suspicious noise, and Orphael was curious by nature. He would never rest until eh found out what was going on, if she gave him any more reason to act nosey.

Orphael tried to open the door, and swore. It was his habit to assume a response meant 'come in and speak to me face to face'. Because of this, Lahallia took to spelling her door shut. Particularly with weapons, notes, and poison strewn across her desk.

She had made plans for Orphael as well, as she did not want to have to kill him for getting in her way.

For all his failings, she did like the Mazken. If she spoke honestly to herself, she could see the differences—and indeed, the pros—of living in the Isles. Within the Apocrypha, she occasionally had the odd feeling of being not unlike a porcelain figure, something left on a shelf until it grew dusty. At which point someone would take it down, dust it off, and put it back, to gaze blankly over the comings and goings from its lofty perch.

Here, she felt like a plant in a pot, growing and changing—which was ridiculous. Constantly shuffled around from room to room, kept in the sunlight and watered regularly. The idea of a plant with flowers in the shape of her face made Lahallia snort. Talking flowers...what next?

Of course, it was all nonsense. But it wasn't dangerous nonsense, after all, merely amusing.

Speaking of amusing, she smirked as she retrieved another potion vial from beneath her pillow, hiding it in a pocket of her clothes. Would Orphael be amused when he realized she drugged him into deepest sleep?

Probably not, Lahallia mused as she unlocked her door. In fact, the likelihood he would end up very cranky indeed—and part of her wondered idly what 'cranky behavior' might entail—remained high.

If she had remembered their conversation after he got her tipsy, she would have blushed, and stifled those thoughts immediately.

"You're getting as paranoid as Syl." Orphael greeted her as she stepped into the hall, clsing her door—and locking it—behind her.

"Nonsense. You're miffed because you keep hoping you'll walk in on me while I'm dressing, or having a bath." Lahallia used the tease as a means to distract him from the locked doors. Whens he headed down the stairs, he followed without hesitation.

Orphael simply pinned her with his vivid eyes and smirked at her, once she turned to face him in the dining room. So much could be implied by a simple look, and Lahallia tended to read too much into such things. Right now, it worked in his favor, for she turned pink in the cheeks, and swallowed visibly.

"So, what's for supper?" Lahallia tried to ignore the burning in her cheeks and the odd flip-flop in her stomach. If she knew he was so adept with that look so heavy with implications and not-so-subtle wickedness—and she did—she could not figure out why she gave him opportunities to employ it.

Unless it had to do with the sneaking feeling that she rather enjoyed the idea that the look was leveled at _her_, whether he was only joking or not. Logic said it distracted him from asking uncomfortable questions about what she was up to. Something illogical declared the logic was just a cover for something she did not want to question too much.

Once Orphael—riding the tide of having won the match without having aid a word—stepped out of the room, Lahallia permitted herself to reorder her thoughts, which meant acknowledging the ones making her uncomfortable. The fact remained—and she did not want to admit it—he was slowly bringing back feelings she had thought dead, buried, and forgotten.

Well, she thought acidly, setting the table for two with unwonted vehemence, as long as she was not having odd dreams, there was nothing to worry about. It was fascination. It would die out eventually.

Orphael came back into the room to find Lahallia's mouth pursed, her eyes hard as flint, and her posture screaming irritation. Well, he could fix that. "I'm not eating. It's Bliss' best."

Lahallia's expression lost its rigidity as disappointment crept across it. Orphael, while alternating meals between Bliss and Crucible to give her a good taste of both sides of the Isles—pun intended—did not usually eat when the food came from Bliss. Lahallia could not tell if he had a real reason for this, or if it was just the Mazken anti-Mania stance.

He did, however, sit down beside her after setting the tray he carried on the table.

Lahallia's mouth dropped open as the faint smell of strawberries, fresh and sweet, curled about her angular nose.

Orphael smiled as Lahallia's expression cleared the rest of the way, her eyes falling on the bowl of berries. He had not expected to find anything on her list of favorite foods. He expected her years in the Apocrypha would make her forget what real food tasted like, but unmistakably he'd made a lucky guess. "I take it you approve?"

The memory fascinating Lahallia was faded, half-forgotten and therefore distracting. The smell reminded her of…of… she absently picked up one of the large, plump berries, pursing her lips as she looked at it. Of…

Her eyes drifted out of focus, as though looking through her hand and the delectable fruit propped like a jewel on display in her fingers.

For a moment Orphael thought she was about to have an episode of Visions. It had not escaped him that the more she did not _think_ about them, the fewer episodes she seemed to have. Now, whether that was always the case or if it was the case here in the Isles, he was not certain. Regardless, since he first took to wearing gloves, she stopped snapping at him when he touched her.

"Lahallia?" Orphael's hand closed over her shoulder, spell at the ready.

"This reminds me of something…" she murmured softly, not paying attention to her words.

"Something pleasant?" Whatever it was, he doubted she would remember. How long had she walked the Apocrypha's gray halls, after all?

"It reminds me of…" her mouth worked. She swallowed, her gaze still fixed on the rich, red berry as though it were a portent of the future. "Of…" Lahallia shook her head, blinked, and came out of her reverie. "Are they good?"

"I would assume so." Orphael had not missed the moment of deep uncertainty before Lahallia had changed the subject. Surely that meant she was beginning to suspect something amiss in her precious Apocrypha…

"Try." The thoughtful look on his face unnerved her, pushing her to do something to distract him from it. She held the berry out to him, the shadows of doubt still lurking behind her mismatched eyes.

"No, thank you."

"Try," she repeated, teasingly, poking the berry in his direction.

Orphael caught her wrist, grinning wickedly at her. Leaning forward, he abruptly bit the end of the fruit off, then leaned back, making a show of licking his lips. "Tastes fine to me…but don't trust my word for it." He continued smirking as Lahallia's neck showed a creep of blush. Really, it should be illegal, teasing her. She was so easy to get to. He managed to filch the remains of the berry from her, and held it up.

Lahallia knew he meant her to take it from his hand—but not with her fingers—and froze. "No, that's all right…you can have the rest of it."

Orphael, still smirking, but with incredible care so as not to send her from the room, moved the berry forward until the bitten end touched her lower lip, leaving a faint trail of glistening juice as he traced the shape of her mouth. Lahallia's heart hammered as the fruit moved cool and gentle across her slightly parted lips. The experience both novel, new, and unsettling…

…but not frightening, intimidating, or unwelcome. Perhaps the right word was..._fascinating_.

The lights in the room changed, as they always did when darkness settled over the streets of New Sheoth.

Lahallia, dry mouthed, slowly licked her lips, without any consciousness of doing so. "I forgot our drinks," pulling away she hurried to the kitchen, poured two glasses of Dementia wine, and into Orphael's emptied the sleeping draught produced from its hiding place within her clothes. Unexpectedly, her hands shook as she made these last preparations before she could disappear into the night.

Orphael wordlessly smirked at her, finishing the strawberry as she resumed her seat. As Orphael winked at her before tipping back his glass, Lahallia licked her lips again. The taste of strawberry still lingered on them like a kiss.


	37. Chapter 37

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Inside House Dementia

--SI--

Night lay thick as cold molasses over the New Sheoth Palace. Outside, except for the endless routine of Mazken and Aureal feet dutifully, untiringly beating familiar paths back and forth between checkpoints, nothing stirred. Within, the Mazken garrison of House Dementia armed and armored trooped this way and that with all the industry of ants in a colony. Twice as busy, for the change of guard was in full swing.

Click-click. Click-click. Nelrene's boots tapped rhythmically against the stone of the floor, muffling only as she trod along the carpets. Grakedrig Feshayle's instructions were clear: she, Nelrene, was in Syl's bad books, and therefore should steer clear of the duchess until Syl forgot and moved her paranoia and discontent to someone else. Syl did not forget her grudges overnight, but tended to organize them in such a way that she could only focus on one or two at any given time. Such avoidance—while perfectly common amongst the Mazken garrison—inevitably led to the disgraced making the night patrols through silent corridors of House Dementia.

No Mazken would ever shirk duty, but even so, the general air of relaxed discipline in the House tonight left Nelrene uneasy. She knew enough about herself to know she _always _felt uneasy when the guard was changed. More Mazken than usual in one place gave a false sense of security—the comfortable notion no idiot would dare cause trouble when the numbers were so bolstered. It would be—dare she think it?—utterly _mad. _

Which was exactly why Nelrene expected trouble. This place was full of nothing _but_ mad people—and one Altmer, so the stories went. Well, that was Lrod Sheogorath's business. Hers was security and she intended to...

"Nelrene! Hsst!"

Nelrene, frowning, turned to see Herdir, Syl's torture master, beckoning to her from the head of the short hall leading to his room full of devices and nasty little toys. The twisted little toad of a man's air of furtiveness did nothing to ease Nelrene's doubts about security. Nor did she particularly want to put herself in too close proximity to him. Something about him made her uncomfortable. And uncomfortable Mazken tended to show it in ways easy to confuse with bad temper. She could not see what business he had with her, much less what importance that business might have. Basic instinct told her here was a shattered mind, that it fractured along the lines of Dementia—obviously—and that unless he was going behind someone's back about a plot, he had nothing useful to say.

Shoving aside her own annoyance at the interruption of her duties, she assumed the role of babysitter humoring a child. Her duties included keeping an eye on the madpeople within her district of influence, and she could not avoid or shirk it. She doubled back following him into the dimly-lit torture chamber. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light. The smells of sweat, pain, and fear lingered, mingling with a faint trace of blood. "I'm supposed to be making the rounds. Be brief." Please, be brief. The chamber was the sort of place she'd usually avoid. An uncomfortable feeling hung in the air, as if things best unspoken had gone on in here…

Nelrene strode towards the rack at the end of the room, past the cage flanked by hunger statues. Hungers were as much a part of Mazken life as guard dogs elsewhere. Something about the rack stirred fragmented memory, as she ran a hand over the well-oiled wood. Surely Syl didn't give Herdir so much business that the rack was often in use? The thought of Syl left an inexplicable bad taste in her mouth. The duchess was a duchess, chosen by Lord Sheogorath, who was never wrong. It was not now, nor was it ever _her_ duty to second guess _his_ choices.

The bad taste in her mouth increased abruptly, as Herdir grabbed her shoulder, pulled her about and pressed his hot mouth against hers.

Herdir yelped as Nelrene brought her knee up sharply, and threw him mercilessly to the ground, wiping her mouth on her arm, disgusted. Speaking of presumption! He was lucky she had not done more than kick him. "What do you mean by it, fool?" she snapped, grimacing at the unclean feel of such a familiar greeting by the warped little man cowering on the ground before her. Disgusting...what was the little toad thinking?

Herdir, still whining in pain, looked up at the Mazken towering over him, realization dawning as he found himself on the sharp edge of her glare. She didn't know him, past name and face. She didn't remember _him. _Remember _them_.

Nelrene grimaced as the human mumbled something squeakily, involving the words 'you', 'me' and 'us'. Her smile fell as he added what sounded like 'together' and something about the rack. The insinuation left her caught between absolute disgust and splinters of memory tugging at her, incoherent little fragments which left her uneasy.

The same way the rack tugged at these fragmented memories, she had vague impressions of elegantly pointed ears, and dark elven flesh. She shoved all fragments aside. Any Mazken knew not to dwell on these, or they would puzzle and figure until their minds went to mush. There was never enough of the fragments to piece together, never enough context to interpret them. It was easier to let the past lie.

"I don't know what you're babbling about," she responded crisply. "But if you touch me in such a fashion again, I shall cut your tongue out and pin it to your forehead. I have duties to which I must attend."

Kneeling in the torture chamber, trying to pull himself together, Herdir grit his teeth. Hot, acrid anger boiled up in his guts like poison. This was _their _fault_. Her_ fault…that damned Altmer. Sheogorath's new lapdog. It was her fault Nelrene had died. Who asked her to serve up the Mazken to Syl's boundless paranoia? She could have lied—_he_ would have corroborated.

Herdir shook as he forced himself to his feet.

She had to die. There was nothing for it. The Altmer had to go.

Nelrene crossed the room, stepping into the hall, a stray draft touching her skin like memory.

Vaelar. Duke Vaelar. Though what he had to do with anything, she wasn't sure. Uncomfortably, Nelrene continued on with her rounds through the silent halls of House Dementia, haunted by things she could not remember, and could not quite push aside.

--SI--

Lahallia froze in her tracks as Nelrene stepped free of the torture chamber, before darting forward. For a moment the ripple of air marking her movement seemed to have alerted the Mazken, but Nelrene did not even look around at the inexplicable draft. Frowning, the Mazken stood in the hallway, her eyes somewhat vacant, as though in the middle of some serious introspection, her mouth pursed.

Invisible, Lahallia flattened herself against the wall, watching as Nelrene stood there for a few moments. The uncomfortable, haunted expression on Nelrene's face was one Lahallia knew well, having worn it over while pondering what it was about strawberries that touched her memory so. It was _something_, but what that something was...it escaped her completely, a blank spot which should not be blank.

She still did not know what the missing memory was, nor—she told herself firmly—why she did not know. Unwanted, Orphael's words hinting at why things of memory went missing echoed in her mind. _No_, she grit her teeth. There had to be another, better reason that did not involve him being right.

It would make him _insufferable_. She would rather not have him be insufferable.

Lahallia did not breathe a sigh of relief when Nelrene carried on, the sounds of her armored boots marking her progress down the hall, growing quiet before dying out.

The Mazken's exit allowed Lahallia to continue on with the business at hand, rather than agonize over things she did not wish to give too much consideration. So far, so good. The startling appearance of Nelrene, and the ensuing readiness for a fight, left Lahallia profoundly glad Orphael was sleeping peacefully, slouched against the table.

She would have hated to have to fight _him_.

If Lahallia felt a stab of guilt for drugging him and leaving him to sleep it off, it was assuaged by the fact she had tucked a blanket around his shoulders before doing so. She forced herself not to pay attention to the niggling memory of wanting to leave a faintly strawberry-flavored kiss on his high cheekbone.

Gritting her teeth, she clutched her amber dagger, meticulously wiped down with the potent poison concocted for this task. The poison was more than potent, having spent the last two days mulling in its perfume bottle. She had the bottle hanging about her neck, ready for use, just in case. It did not do to take chances on a one-attack weapon.

Cold air hung moist in the halls of House Dementia. The voices of chattering Mazken drifted out into the halls as she made her way to the Duchess' private garden, from which she could access the rest of the house. As she expected: complacency from the comfort of bolstered numbers. Mazken may take things seriously, but they weren't perfect.

Thank goodness for that. She smiled fondly at the thought, glad not to have to fight her way through the entire redoubled garrison. She really did like the Mazken.

Slipping into the garden separating residential House Dementia from the Court of Dementia proved easier than Lahallia expected. Kithlan's key and the lack of watchful eyes allowed her to slip past the heavy, grotesquely figured door into the night air.

The Dementia gardens gave the impression of a neglected graveyard. Unnatural mist hung ankle deep over the whole place, pouring from the paved walkway into the garden itself. In the faint light given off by some indigenous Dementia species of plant, slimy things glittered sinisterly upon the rocks dotting the landscape. Some of those climbing plants, reaching long snakelike vines up the pillars supporting the walkway's roof reminded her of very leafy harrada. It would not have surprised Lahallia if the plant tried to strangle unwary passers-by. As if on cue, the vines shivered in the breezeless air, as the sound of boots on the walkway became audible.

Knowing her feet left blank spots and disturbances in the fog, Lahallia hurried towards the doors, which huddled in the dark shadows. She knew which one she needed to take, thanks to her interrogations of the right people. Climbing up to balance in one of the alcoves she held her breath, safe from discovery unless one of the Mazken bumbled into her.

She could not repress the thought that this garden did have aesthetic value. Overgrown, wild and forgotten, it was a place in which a person could lose themselves. Find solitary solace.

Even if it was creepy.

Lahallia had to wait before slipping into Syl's room, due to the two tough-looking Mazken standing right outside the door. She expected this. Usually no one without a token of passage from the Duchess could get in, unless they were Mazken. Syl was not known for giving out such tokens...which made Lahallia wonder how Thadon got in. Or maybe they met in his court—it did not matter. Would not matter after tonight.

The point remained that with so many Mazken in the Court, and the garrison, security lapsed a little. No one, supposedly, could get past so many Mazken. Anyone unaware of the ghostly fog would certainly have gotten caught, but madmen were not detail persons.

Which was where Lahallia possessed a distinct advantage.

While the architecture of the main palace was fairly unadorned, almost neutral, the architecture within House Dementia was anything but. Gargoyles and Daedric monsters Lahallia could not name writhed and twisted in the archways, small jewels glittering from their deep eye sockets. Shadows skulked like light-hating creatures away from the torches burning green and blue-white in their sconces, their slithering shapes playing too many tricks with unwitting eyes.

Finally the Mazken moved on, chatting in low voices as they walked circuits around the periphery. Lahallia slipped down form her perch as they rounded the corner, putting their back to her. Timing was everything. Fitting the key into the lock—and forcing herself not to pay attention to whatever motif the lock and handle sported, it was better not to know—Lahallia slipped into the Duchess' chambers.

The lack of commotion outside indicated no one saw the impression of feet in the fog, or the door open of its own accord. In comparison to the dark halls with their creeping shadows and haunting lights, the Duchess' chambers were lit brightly, so shadows only pooled in the corners. With so much light, it was surprising Syl could sleep—though as a manifestation of paranoia, Lahallia could appreciate the logic.

No shadows meant nowhere for the mediocre assassin to hide.

Looking at her own hands, she found, upon walking through the door, she became perfectly visible, strange magicka brushing against her skin. Well, that would take care of magically reliant assassins. Except those few who could rely wholly on stealth, almost any assassin would now be visible. It was an intelligence and common sense which Lahallia could appreciate, though she could not say with certainty of the work was Syl's, or one of Sheogorath's decisions as to how this wing of the palace should function.

Lahallia dropped the matter in favor of more important things. She could muse all she liked later. Bosmer or not, Syl never gave Lahallia the impression of being a mean opponent. In fact, Lahallia was glad to see Syl sprawled on the bed…

She nearly screamed when someone stepped out from behind her, grabbing the wrist attached to the hand snaking for her dagger.

Kithlan found himself forcibly flung away from the Altmer by a very strong telekinesis spell. The moment Lahallia recognized him, she reigned in her spell, the Redguard grunting as he jerked to a stop, halfway through his flight towards the wall.

"What are you doing?" Lahallia hissed, dropping the Redguard unceremoniously to the ground, glowering as he disentangled himself.

"That's…not Syl…" Kithlan snapped, eyes glittering angrily from the rough treatment.

Lahallia stalked over, ignoring the look. He was right—it was Anya Herrick, lying glassy-eyed, her expression almost frozen. "A decoy." She could barely distinguish it _was_ Anya under the spellwork—spellwork apparently laid upon the unfortunate woman after she was brought here. Lahallia knew the wards on the door would have dispelled any such spells upon entry. If nothing else, this would just confirm to Kithlan—and later Anya, whenever she came out of this state—that they had done the right thing in betraying Syl.

"Yeah…" Kithlan winced as he picked himself up.

Lahallia continued ignoring him as she touched Anya's face, and neck. Not spells Lahallia could dispel, in a short amount of time. Not now, when Syl was still running around loose somewhere. "It this usual for Syl?" Lahallia waved to Anya. Decoys she could see as usual. Using some of her previously most loyal mortal-race servants…it sounded like the act of a desperate woman to Lahallia.

And very thrifty, if Syl's paranoia was getting more and more out of hand. She could use this to her advantage, if the opportunity to do so arose.

"No—that's why Anya's…like this…" Kithlan waved. "She didn't volunteer, you know."

Lahallia did not need to ask to figure out why Kithlan was here: he obviously had an interest in Anya and didn't want anything to happen to her. Which made her wonder if Kithlan knew Anya had passed information as well. She certainly had no intention of mentioning it, but she did have to wonder.

"Syl uses many such decoys to throw would-be killers off her trail. Usually volunteers…or people she's not afraid to lose." The bitterness in Kithlan's voice was unmistakable.

"Where is Syl now?" Despite now having to run Syl to ground, Lahallia's interest in her task piqued. It was different, chasing a dangerous, paranoid Bosmer into a corner as opposed to running down dusty, musty copies of long forgotten texts. The prospect gave her much the same feeling as that moment when Orphael had traced her lips with the juicy strawberry: shock, surprise, apprehension…anticipation.

More to stave off distractions she did not need—she did want to come out of this alive, after all—Lahallia pinned Kithlan with an imperious glare. Killing Syl was not supposed to be an agreeable experience, but she could not help remembering how much the Mazken seemed to loathe Syl, how often Syl had abused their loyalty. But she should not _enjoy_ killing the Bosemer. She was not a member of the Dark Brotherhood. Enjoyment of killing someone was an unprofessional thing for anyone who was not.

The Redguard shifted, uneasy.

"You know I'm the best bet you've got to kill Syl." The deprecating words came easily. Really, such reticence. "If she survives…how long will _you_?" Lahallia glanced back at Anya, relying on a touch of theatrics. "Either of you?"

Kithlan grit his teeth. The devil he knew was a lot more unstable than the devil he didn't… "Syl has made her escape through the hidden tunnel in the gardens—behind the bust of Sheogorath. Be wary, I fear that her escape may be a ruse to lure you into an ambush."

At the word ambush, Lahallia noticed something she had previously missed. At Cylarne was the feeling of living a story—of playing the hero in relative safety, all strings pulled by a greater being. This reassurance was gone. In this moment, it was Lahallia versus Syl and Syl's army of Mazken, without Sheogorath's influences, without his protection. She was no longer his agent—she was an assassin, acting of her own accord and therefore unprotected by the powers that be.

Part of Lahallia wondered if Sheogorath was even watching this, however he watched those things going on in his realm…which was odd. He gave the impression he liked to keep an eye on all things new or unusual. In which case he probably _was_ watching...and getting bored.

"Stay here. Lock yourselves in." Lahallia walked to the door, gathered a spell for invisibility in her hand, and in one motion flung herself out of the door, casting the half-ready spell as she went. Standing there breathing more heavily than she would have liked, and once again invisible, Lahallia's eyes misted over with a detect-life spell, to see if anyone was running towards her.

No one. The nearest Mazken prowled along the walkway. Her time inside was long enough for them to return to the side of the garden which put their backs to the door.

The lock in Syl's room clicked softly, prompting Lahallia to start moving. The bust of Sheogorath stood out like a sore thumb—particularly since it somehow did not seem to blend in with the rest of the architecture. As if it were an afterthought, a later addition. Or as if the present-day House Dementia had sprung up around it.

Regardless, Lahallia reached it, checked around for the Mazken again, and waiting until they passed. She did not want to take any chances, and balled magicka in her hand.  
The Mazken never felt the spell dimming her eyes or blunting their ears. As such, they never heard the secret entryway open. They never saw the tunnel close again—merely squinting in muffled darkness so profound if gave them the creeping shivers.

Anywhere but in the Isles, such a thing might have triggered a sense of something amiss.


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Duchess is Dead…

--SI--

The feeling that the underground complex was not originally part of the New Sheoth Palace—or that the new Sheoth Palace was an afterthought built over the underground structure—only intensified as Lahallia reached the bottom of the long ladder in its narrow dark tunnel. The long climb in pitch black, not alleviated by any lamp or torch left her disoriented as to depth or duration spent getting there. Looking up, she could not see anything except impenetrable darkness.

The shaft leading from the gardens to the ground was so narrow she'd found herself almost holding her breath, thinking very narrow thoughts as though this might somehow diminish her actual size, and make the long climb through the claustrophobic environment more bearable. It had not worked in the slightest, so her relief at reaching the bottom resulted in a deep sigh. She refused to think about having to climb back _up_ the shaft, choosing another subject upon which to bend her mind.

It made no sense, to have two such contradicting places as this complex and the palace put together in such a fashion. Most of the Isles had a fairly regular sort of architecture, with tangling hallways and a certain lack of rhyme or reason.

…or it was just Sheogorath's whimsy, and attempts to wrong-foot the mostly-stable minded with meaningless conundrums over which to puzzle. That actually sounded about right, though Lahallia did not mean it as a compliment.

Or perhaps it was like the little room before entering the Fringe, where she had dictated the rules of how things acted, and this whole place was simply a response to Syl's wishes, as the Duchess Of Dementia.

Unlike the air in the garden, the air of the underground complex hung hot and heavy, smoke from traditional fire and oil torches burned her eyes, sending thick shadows and smoke to coil and curl about like living things.

In the hallway leading away from the ladder ran an inscription in the wall.

_**XIRETHARD** _

_May intruders go the way of hopes: dead and gone_

Squaring her shoulders, Lahallia set off. The nervous prickling of her spine as she pursed her lips gave her the uncomfortable feeling the looming Hunger statues were watching her.

They did more than watch, as Lahallia found out in a shower of sparks and a coil of smoke smelling strongly of singed hair. Jumping back she clenched her teeth. What had she expected? Lax security? Luckily, Lahallia enjoyed challenges, within reason, which was perhaps why she felt more annoyance than fear.

--SI--

Syl had made Xirethard more than some place to just hunker down in times of worry. It was more along the lines of an escape route—though Syl felt her chances were better if she could put her backup against a wall somewhere, instead of wandering around in the swamps, waiting for something to come try and eat her. Not that this was much comfort to her. Her elite guards posted throughout the complex had, so far, given no indication of trouble, not so much as a squeak, or the soft 'pfft' of sudden, unexpected death.

Resting in the fashion of elves made such long nights more bearable to Syl than to others—though not tot he Mazken, who considered such long hours simply part of the job—though the unabated fears and worried were taking their toll on the Bosmer.

Syl shook, though her guards, all facing the only entryway into this cul-de-sac of a room, did not see it. Her mind would not slow—how could it? How could she rest when she _knew_ that bitch Altmer was lurking….how had she failed to see it before? Of course Sheogorath—that treacherous fiend—had brought the Altmer here to replace her! Why else would he want a snobby, pug-nosed, incompetent whatever-she-was here?

Syl breathing became heavier as she glowered at the backs of her Mazken guards, clutching Nerveshatter until it cut into her palms, through the straps anchoring her bracers' hand guards in place. Amazingly enough the Mazken had not turned on her yet, to make the accursed Altmer's job easier.

As if she did not know what they were all saying, what they are all thinking: hoping, _praying _that this Altmer usurper would kill her, so they could have a 'proper duchess' again…yes, that was it. They would not mind dying at the Altmer's hand if it assured that upstart's accession.

Which meant now was time to start preparing her own food and drinks at all times….

The brilliance of the plan made Syl's stomach quiver, and cold sweat stand out on her brow. Yes…when the Altmer arrived, these Mazken would certainly take up arms…against _her_, their lawfully appointed duchess! More than that—the idea made her toes go cold in her boots—they weren't _protectors_…they were _wardens_. _Jailors. _Syl bristled as she eyed the watchful Mazken, both with attention focused on the door, speaking in low murmurs, hands gripping swords of the finest-forged madness ore, ready for anything that might come to harm the duchess.

Syl did not see it that way: she saw traitors ready to turn on her as soon as the moment was right, as soon as they were sure the Altmer could make the killing stroke. They would make it so the Altmer could have that last stroke...

Syl looked down. At one time she would have considered it a novelty to wear the same armor as her Mazken—it was an honor afforded to very few. Now it looked like a giant notice for the Altmer: for a Bosmer in Mazken armor surely must draw more attention than anything else. More plots, more cunning—making her stand out in such a fashion...it was intolerable, wasn't it?

How could they have planned things so perfectly, without so much as a whisper...unless all her informants and eyes were truly traitorous. She suspected them all, of course, she would be a fool not to, if loyalty could be bought or otherwise ensured by threats and promises...but in this way all doings of note soon became known to her. Corroboration between so many people on thisscale was nothing short of staggering.

Syl's hands gripped Nerveshatter even more tightly, her maddened eyes fixed on the swirling patterns of wings, visible on her jailors' backs. Any competent mind—and a great mean of the incompetent—considered these works of natural coloration, unique to each Mazken, one of the most exotic traits. Perhaps why all wore armor exposing their backs, and therefore as much of the markings as possible. The way a harlot would show off her assets, or a gladiator display physical prowess.

Syl saw only backs so opportunely placed facing her…

…she wished Thadon was here. For company if nothing else—madness knew he was no use in a fight. So hopeless…so helpless…such a lovely toy...

Which really made it his fault she was being hunted like a rabbit. Who would hurt something so helpless? No, a proud Altmer would never settle for hunting something like Thadon. There was no challenge to it. Just like there was no challenge in stealing the Chalice…though that hadn't ended the way she'd meant it, in more attention for her and less attention to his foolish Felldew fixation. Such focus lasted only a little while—a blissful, enjoyable little while.

She liked him better in what was left of his right mind. So creative…so very wicked…

Syl's eyes flashed with new determination. Oh no, they would not corner here down here. Not _her_.

Nerveshatter rose to land a killing blow, like a sea monster rising up from the depths. Syl was sued to seeing people executed. Striking the killing blow—killing blows against _Mazken—_was new. And pleasurable.

--SI--

Invisible, and wondering why no one in the Isles seemed to know how to cast a detect life spell, Lahallia lurked in the doorway of the room where Syl had hunkered down. Throughout these deepest passages of Xirethard, rooms were braced as though for an all-out assault. Tables, chairs and even broken stonework filled doorways, effectively funneling any would-be assassin into Mazken pickets, and eventually here.

The Mazken, archers crouched behind hastily erected fortifications, or prowled about with shields on their arms near cover, were the least of Lahallia's problems. She knew it, though this knowledge of priorities did not make her underestimate them.

The Mazken were designed by Sheogorath to display a loyalty bordering on fanatical. They would not abandon Syl as long as she bore the title of 'Duchess'. Their personal feelings and opinions did not factor into the grand scheme of things.

So long as she made no noise, and did not let her spells of invisibility waver, they would never know she was there, unless they came looking for her or bumbled into her—or she into them. Even these Mazken, however, seemed to have grown just a little complacent. Despite the show of readiness, it looked like just that: a show.

Which was Syl's fault, more than their own, as far as she could tell. How long had Syl asserted so forcefully that someone meant to come to kill her? How many nights had she retreated down to Xirethard in hopes of finding safety? Ages. Under those conditions, sooner or later, anyone, even the best-trained Dremora, would start writing it off as 'typical Syl behavior' and take the threat less than seriously.

Threat? What threat? Just the paranoid spiraling of a mind which exemplified some—if not the best—of Dementia's many qualities.

When was the last time anyone had deposed a Duke or Duchess around here, anyway? For a realm (and a ruler) embracing of change, the ruling bodies didn't seem to change that often—or such were Lahallia's impressions. One would think Sheogorath would go through Dukes and Duchesses like dishwater: appreciated while fresh, used while useful, then tossed out and replaced when it got dirty—or in the case of people when the novelty wore off.

Lahallia clamped a hand to her mouth to stifle the shout that leapt to her throat as Syl slipped up behind the two Mazken barring the door, raised her massive war hammer and swung it at one of the two guards' heads.

The Mazken did not have time to shout, her skull crumpling, shattering beneath the blow. The Mazken crashed to the ground as Syl ripped her hammer free, sending blood, brain, and bone fragments flying through the air.

Lahallia stepped back, still stifling herself lest she betray her presence. Cowardly, perhaps, but certainly smarter than interfering while Syl was waving that hammer around. Eyes wide she watched in horror as Syl, her mind finally snapped, turned upon her own protectors.

The irony was not lost on Lahallia. After so long looking for traitors, the greatest one could be found by Syl simply looking in the mirror.

The other Mazken jumped back, her eyes wide as her companion crumpled to the ground. "Have you lost what sense you had?!" She shouted, parrying a blow from the hammer as Syl laughed, tittering madly, her eyes alight with malice and madness.

Lahallia sprinted forward as the sounds of the archers from the other room began to move, running along the short hallway to the aid of their comrade. What they found was Syl forcing the Mazken towards a corner.

Lahallia could not simply close her eyes and block the scene—though the idea was tempting. The Mazken could no more attack Syl than they could ignore her presence if they saw her. They could parry, defend themselves until Syl ran out of energy—indeed, one of the archers raised her hands, attempting to cast some spell to weaken Syl to a manageable state.

Syl snarled, madness giving her strength and speed unparalleled by her usual state, letting her hammer fly one handed to crash into a slow-moving Mazken. Her now-free hand rose, shattering the Mazken's spell by distracting the woman enough to break her concentration. Syl set the floor beneath the Mazken's feet afire.

The riotous noise in the room, now accentuated by thick smoke, the smell of burning stone and dust made Lahallia's head ache. Syl's mad laughter continued as the magical fire began to lick up the tattered remnants of wall hangings, burning cobwebs and dust, spreading impossibly through the room.

Syl shrieked triumphantly as she felled the third Mazken, stepping over the body. Blood mingled with smoke and heat, causing Vision to threaten to overwhelm Lahallia. Subtly, Lahallia began quelling the flames, finding them magicka-fueled, an extravagant use of power, but certainly more resistant and virulent in their spread than traditional flames. Merely an annoyance to her, in the face of the horror over the sudden, wanton deaths of the guards.

The fourth Mazken put up a courageous fight, but in the end she, too, crashed to the ground, stone dead.

Syl, looked around the still-burning room, then motioned towards the flames. They began to slide off the walls like slime, burning lower and lower until nothing remained of them but hazy smoke and burnt smells.

Syl's chest heaved, her every breath loud as she looked around, her over-bright eyes taking in the wreckage of the room. She tittered insanely as she walked over to one of the dead Mazken, prodding the body with the heel of her boot. "You see?" she hissed. "You see? You can't kill me! You can't do it! I'm too crafty, too cunning!" Syl giggled again, though she shook convulsively. "I'm the Duchess! I _always _win!" Her prodding with her boot became kicking, vicious and unwarranted.

Lahallia closed her eyes, raising her hand. With Syl so far from any semblance of sanity she did not want to sneak up on Syl any more than she wanted to confront the Bosmer face to face. Doubtless the Duchess was in a place where strength and reckless power made up for clear thought and reason. There was no strength like that of a madman, and the same held true for mad mages.

Then Lahallia stopped, a truly unstable smile crossing her invisible features. No one could see the light in her eyes, a creeping malicious glee which would have made almost any Mazken male wonder if she was not pretty by Dementia standards, as well as a desirable leader.

She stopped mid-cast. The perfect way to keep Syl occupied lay bleeding and oozing brain all over the floor.

Syl towered above her fallen enemies. Let the Altmer come! She, Syl, Duchess of Dementia could deal with one stupid Altmer! Look at these Mazken…broken like the pitiful little toys they were! Little toy soldiers for House Dementia! So shiny…like dragonflies…

…and just as fragile…how could she have ever feared them? Sneaky, yes, cunning, certainly...but stupid as rocks.

For a moment Syl did not realize something in the air changed. It went cold. Clammy. The smoke previously hazing the room coiled to the ground like silk hangings cut from their fastenings, turning into a malevolent parody of fog, thickening to obscure the stonework.

The blood drained from Syl's swarthy features as one of the Mazken stirred feebly, silently, her head lolling unpleasantly to turn dead eyes towards the mad duchess.

Syl gaped, taking a step back. "No!" She roared. "No!" Springing forward, she raised Nerveshatter over her head and brought it crashing down on the Mazken, knocking the corpse back to the floor, bones cracking under the blow.

The body lay quiescent, mangled and disfigured, with almost the entire head bashed in. Certainly it lacked eyes and most facial features

Syl did not smile as she had previously. In fact, terror grabbed at her heart, preparatory to leeching her strength. Surely…surely it was just a trick of the light…

…but the gentle scuff of armor plates on the floor froze her blood. Slowly, so slowly, Syl turned, her breathing changing form the heavy panting of exhilaration to the ragged gasps of just-realized terror.

Two of the four Mazken slowly, awkwardly, zombie-like got to their feet, like marionettes on strings. Their movements slow, their shuffling uncoordinated, made the Bosmer backup. "No!" she shrieked. "You're dead! You're dead! I killed you!" _Crash. Crunch_. _Smash_. Nerveshatter struck, Syl's aim becoming erratic, slamming a head, smashing a shoulder, swiping through the air, hitting nothing at all, forcing her to scuttle back.

No sooner did the moving Mazken corpses hit the ground, skin punctured by shattered bones, armor crumpled like mistreated dinner plates, the other two rose slowly, droplets of blood hitting the floor in gentle accompaniment to the shuffling movements, lost in the knee-deep smoky haze.

Syl's wordless shriek of fear and rage echoed in the vault. Even as she smashed and slammed her weapon into the Mazken, they kept getting back up, kept coming for her, to drag her into death from which she, at least, could not return.

Lahallia watched the shattered sanity fracture further, sending offshoot cracks through her twisted brain. Surely she could see before her every Mazken she ever killed on a whim. Lahallia let Syl smash at the bodies, her telekinesis spells giving the dead the zombie-like movements which seemed to so terrify Syl.

But unlike zombies, these perverse puppets had no animating force except the spell she held. Syl could smash them to bloody lumps, with limbs knocked away—and the limbs would simply crawl forward on fingers and toes to lay hold of Syl.

Suddenly Syl threw Nerveshatter, which crashed to the ground. She covered her head, dropping to her knees, hunching over to put her forehead to the floor, whimpering, babbling softly, her voice rising in pitch to break, then falling in low moans and mumblings.

Lahallia let the Mazken drop where they were.

Syl continued rocking back and forth, babbling to herself, tears falling from clenched-shut eyes. The sound of soft footsteps behind her made her stop rocking in place. Her heart leapt. Surely…surely this was Thadon! Or some other rescuer!

Syl sprang to her feet, her expression for one moment transfigured to brilliant joy.

The joy vanished to pure terror as she realized it was not Thadon, but the Altmer Sheogorath had brought to the Isles. Syl tried to run, but did not get very far. A searing pain sliced into her exposed torso, below her collarbones. As she staggered back, away from the Altmer the other elf did not pursue her.

Lahallia did not much carte that the blow she'd struck was only a glancing one, though long enough to make blood sheet across Syl's chest, pouring over the armor like a waterfall over rocks. She had wanted Syl to see her, the last thing the Bosmer would ever see. As uncomfortable as she felt using the Mazken corpses in such a fashion, she couldn't help thinking that they would have approved—anything to get rid of Syl and her paranoia.

Blood beaded along the edge of the amber and gold blade.

Syl reached up, for a shining moment restored to full and perfect clarity. The bright blood clung to her hands…but the _burning_…the Bosmer raised her eyes to the hated Altmer, to the amber and golden blade held casually in one hand,a s the Altmer fished in some hidden pocket with her free hand.

Wordlessly Lahallia fished out the small perfume bottle, letting it dangle from its chain, swinging like a pendulum.

Poison. Syl did not need anyone to tell her what the glittering bottle contained.

Her muscles began to spasm, was it the poison, or fear? The Bosmer could almost _feel_ the death from the little bottle rushing through her veins, her worked-up state causing it to move far more rapidly than it could have done otherwise.

Lahallia watched the poison take its effect, eventually reducing Syl to a twitching heap of spasms and paroxysms.

Then the Bosmer seized up...and went lax.

Ignoring the mess associated with death, Lahallia walked over, rolled Syl onto her back like an animal she meant to skin on the spot. With great effort—and difficulty—the Altmer hacked away at the Bosmer's armor, then at the ribcage. Vision pressed against her mind like a cat against its owner's shins.

Gritting her teeth Lahallia focused, trying to force Vision away for the time being. She needed…needed to…to get out of here…

But Vision descended anyway.

…why was everyone in this place so obsessed with _clowns_?


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Cleaning House

--SI--

Lahallia strode into the Sacellum Arden-Sul tired, aching, and ready for a very large breakfast. What was it about living in the Isles that made people sleepy and hungry so often? This couldn't be normal. Or, she reflected, with time and space beginning to take on some form of constancy, it was 'normal' behaviors and patterns emerging.

Thankfully night still hung over New Sheoth with no sign of dawn, meaning that in all her time wandering through Xirethard, in all the time it took to snare Syl, it had not taken all or even most of the night. With the streets empty, devoid of all citizenry—except one or two asleep in shadowy corners—there was no one to see her, even if she had not made herself invisible. With her clothes covered in Syl's blood and Syl's heart wrapped in an oilcloth, Lahallia did not want the local law-enforcement to start asking awkward questions.

Ritual of Accession or not, it was still murder, and she had the nasty feeling the would-be Duke or Duchess was still subject law until they were officially instated. She did not know exactly how the Isles treated dangerous criminals—she balked at the thought of lumping herself in with that crowd—but she did not want to find out.

She did not bother unwrapping the heart, once she got safely inside the Sacellum. She simply set it nearly on the altar. She wanted to just dump it and have done, but felt such irreverence might somehow come back to haunt her. For a moment she gazed at the bloody lump oozing blood from out of the none too carefully folded edges.

Lahallia lurched as everything she knew vanished, replaced by new people, new settings, new everything. Even her bloody, smoke-smelling clothes changed with a puff of air, replaced suddenly clean garments of wispy black, with long black gloves, surmounted by a black veil falling nearly to her feet. Her hair, now coiled and coiffed no longer felt stringy. She raised a hand to find the veil fastened in place by a tiara-like comb, made, if her gloved fingers did not deceive her, or many faceted stones.

The strange noise turned out to be applauds. The strange place was Sheogorath's throne room. The strange clothes…probably duchess-like raiment, though certainly not like what Syl had preferred to wear. They did not match Lahallia's taste in dress either, though she would not have said so for all the Oblivionic realms on a golden chain.

"Very good! Very good!" Sheogorath boomed, but as before, the feeling of something very large using the man-shaped figure as a puppet seemed more diminished. This in itself seemed so out of the ordinary, even among all the strange things in the Isles, that Lahallia immediately began to worry over it, instead of over the local legal practices.

Lahallia bowed awkwardly. The Mazken had not dispatched with their armor, but simply wore long robes with high collars and without sleeves beneath it, a compromise between fashion and functionality. Probably something new Sheogorath had cooked up for this occasion. He liked to come up with new things to commemorate new happenings.

It looked as though the entire garrison had packed itself into the throne room. Which was absolutely impossible. The room looked much larger than ever, and yet Lahallia's perception of it remained the same: its size did not seem to have changed. Which gave the impression of all the people within having shrunk, instead of the room getting bigger. Yet no one looked of strangely smaller stature than usual.

She abandoned trying to unravel the how of the inner proportions of the room, before it gave her a headache. What had she learned shortly after arriving? Some things were best if just accepted as fact, and not over-examined.

She glanced about uneasily. The winking and blinking of many luminous eyes running the entire array of shades from blue to green made her nervous. Especially as the Mazken looked neither angry, nor pleased...as if waiting for Sheogorath to tell them which it should be.

"I give you a new little Duchess!" The Mazken all shifted, their faces breaking into expressions of approval and pleasure over finally being rid of Syl, and finding her replaced with—to their minds—such a capable Altmer. It took some sort of toughness to depose of someone like Syl, and cunning too.

Lahallia did not doubt she would be a topic of discussion among the ranks for awhile—both herself and her deeds so far. She groaned at heart. If the Mazken were anything like normal people—even a little—the stories would become so exaggerated....

"Treat her carefully…oh, wait…Haskill! Someone's missing!" Sheogorath sounded most heartily displeased. He banged his staff on the floor. All chatter and movement ceased as his bad mood filled the room.

Lahallia did not need to ask who was missing: the missing Mazken was flopped over the table, snoring happily away. She could not help half smiling over this, though more than that she hoped it would not cause Orphael any harm.

Haskill appeared, stepping literally from nowhere—for he stepped into the place at which Lahallia stared unfixed as she pondered—bustling about. A moment later Orphael appeared near Lahallia's shoulder, wobbling a little, but managing to maintain his footing.

He gave Lahallia look of deep disgust, but upon catching sight of his fellows, went through the motions of brushing dust from his clothes, which immediately changed to the armor and long robes sported by the others.

Orphael could not believe he succumbed to the most basic, elementary failing when dealing with mad people—women in particular. Poison, or a sleeping draught in the glass. She did not have to go that far. She could have asked him to stay put—not that he would have, but she would never know he had followed. His orders were absolute, and she had no business interfering with them.

Did she _want_ him punished with something creative? Lord Sheogorath specialized in creative punishments.

Lahallia knew she would get an earful later without the impressive glower Orphael was shooting at her. She was, however, too tired to care, or even to feel concerned by it.

"The ring, Haskill!" Sheogorath barked enthusiastically, waving his staff about enthusiastically, the haze of anger and annoyance lifting as though someone had opened a window.

It was, however, still stuffy from too many people in too confined a place.

Haskill bowed, then produced a purple pillow with gold tassels, which he presented to Sheogorath with a deep bow.

Sheogorath bounced to his feet, and without walking down the steps from his throne, suddenly appeared in front of Lahallia, catching her wrist in his superhumanly strong grip. The ring he slipped onto her right hand made her finger ache with cold for a moment, the blue-green stone winking at her like sinister promise. It immediately turned luminous, the same shade as Orphael's eyes.

"This is the Ring of Lordship—it would've saved a lot of trouble if you'd taken it from Syl when you girls were chatting," Sheogorath grumbled, holding up Lahallia's hand as if admiring the effect of the dark band and winking jewel against her white finger. "It's a symbol," his golden eyes fixed on Lahallia's, once more leaving the Altmer feeling as though she were a butterfly pinned in a collector's box. Her breath suddenly constricted, as though a tight band was bound about her lungs. "And in the Isles _symbols are important_." The last words echoed in her head, as well as in her ears.

Even as the sound faded, Lahallia realized the spell dormant in the ring was a form of summons.

And unless she was wrong, it summoned a Mazken to accompany the duchess. She had enough experience working with Daedra to know not to question how she knew, but to simply accept. Daedric Princes so often found mortal help clumsy, and no mortal wanted to find themselves made an example of, to encourage carefulness in the rest.

Orphael himself felt a subtle tug, as though someone trying to pull a loose string out of his very being. The 'string' pulled taut, as though tied off...and it tied directly tot he glittering ring on Lahallia's finger. It was just as well. She could call him if she needed him—though why she was not issued a female Mazken elite, he could not guess.

Thankfully for all present, in the time it took him to finish his sentence, Sheogorath had returned to his chair. "Go, off you go! Go, get settled in! Tomorrow…the hard work begins." He settled back in his chair, piercing golden eyes fixed on the Altmer.

Orphael felt it ripple through the air, like thunder before a storm broke. Something _strange_…unheard-of. He was not the only one, though being nearest Mazken, it came to him most strongly. Something was wrong...

But the idea of Sheogorath sick was just…just _wrong_. And worrisome.

Lahallia felt something odd, but could not put it into words. She also did not feel it as acutely as Orphael did, therefore dismissing it as a minor inconsistency in a land where inconstancy was the rule of thumb.

"Go, go on," Orphael murmured, shepherding Lahallia towards the doors to House Dementia. Not even a Duke or Duchess should be around Lord Sheogorath when his mood was…off.

She was promptly taken from his care by a bevy of higher-ranked Mazken, after whom the rest were left to file, long robes swishing softly, boots clicking in even paces against the floor.

Sheogorath slouched in his throne, Haskill standing nearby, rocking gently back and forth, with his eyes fixed on the floor. He looked truly ill, one fist lifted to his mouth as if he were nibbling on his knuckles, the other wrapped across his stomach. Something was wrong here, very wrong.

"Tch," Haskill clicked his tongue as if to chase off an unwelcome cat, his eyes fixed upon the straggling Mazken.

Whatever else he was, Orphael was smart. He left the room after the others, not questioning the strange behavior, or the sudden bout of changes sweeping across the Isles. It was not easy, not questioning it this time. The usual stifling of such querying thoughts felt different as well, neither as quick to quell such impertinent questions, but impossibly stifling when it did arrive, like wool over the mouth and nose.

After all, Lahallia would make a much finer duchess than Syl. Definitely smarter. More powerful. And much prettier. The black dress Lord Sheogorath chose clung so softly to her figure…

--SI--

Lahallia did not even get to _think_ about going to bed until well after dawn. First she had to accept Mazken fealty. This in itself took a long time, as each one present pledged her- or himself to her service. Even Orphael, though he did it in such a way that would not draw censure from his superiors, but still let Lahallia know her plot to drug him was not amusing.

Then, various delegates from the other garrisons not present offered fealty on behalf of the whole for their outposts. For a moment, once all these acceptances were made, Lahallia thought she might slip off to get some rest, but no. She had to accept allegiances from the household, had to honor Kithlan and Anya publicly—though she did not say _why._ That would be foolish.

She did not dare put off praise and reward when dealing with mad people. Not until later would House Mania be informed of the change of authority—but she was not, said Kithlan, to worry about that. It was his job, after all, and he would gladly do it. Doubtless Thadon would take Syl's death badly. _If_ he could clear his head long enough to figure out what Kithlan's words meant.

It was a job Lahallia did not want, so she gracefully, eloquently, thanked the Redguard until his posture and expression told her the flattery not only found its mark, but hit the bullseye_. _

Nelrene stood off to one side of the Duchess, hidden from the Altmer's view as she loomed behind the chairs now occupied by Kithlan and Anya. Her sharp eyes roving over the assembled household. They'd all better be here, wee hours of the morning or not. Every Mazken in all the Isles knew about the now-Duchess' intervention at Cylarne, knew what sort of task it was to kill Syl in the first place—much less do it without anyone knowing, or even _suspecting _it.

Nelrene did puzzle some over why he Duchess specifically bade her to come stand so near the throne, particularly when that twit Orphael stood off to the other side. Hwoever, she did not ask, merely accepted the honor. It was as though the Duchess held her in some esteem, though Nelrene was not sure why that should be.

Still, Nelrene drew herself up proudly. At least Orphael did not look as though he enjoyed his current posting.

Her eyes fell on Herdir, hunkering in a corner. He had not yet offered his service and loyalty to the Duchess, but neither had many others. The household did have to present themselves one at a time, and mortals needed sleep, even if Mazken did not.

Herdir's eyes burned as they fixed upon the pale duchess in her dark dress, flanked by faithful Mazken. And she had the gall to hold Nelrene up before him, reminding him that it was _she _who had killed the Mazken, and killed what that Mazken and Herdir had shared…

Herdir slipped out of the audience chamber. He would not mouth obeisance to that Altmer. He _would not_.

Nelrene watched Herdir slink away, not having missed the hungry, vengeful expression stamped across his face. Out of the corner of her eye she glanced at the duchess. Apparently the duchess had not noticed Herdir slip away.

Nelrene returned her eyes forward. She knew what a man with murder on his mind looked like—and right now Herdir was a perfect example. The Mazken did not touch her sword, not even to grip the hilt reassuringly. Doubtless Herdir was unstable—it was prerequisite to joining the population of the Isles. He took pleasure in the torture of others…something that this duchess would probably not condone to the extent Syl had.

Yes, losing one's value could have a bad effect. But threatening the duchess was most unwise. Remembering the distasteful feel of his mouth on hers, Nelrene came to a conclusion. Namely that Court Dementia was far better off without having to worry about when Herdir would inevitably snap and do something extremely foolish. If he was going to end up dead on a Mazken sword, better sooner than later.

Mazken preferred, after all, to remove security risks before they could actively threaten the duke or duchess. As soon as she could slip away, she would deal with the problem. Silently. Discreetly. After all…the Mazken were charged with the safety of the Duke or Duchess. Not to act would be…unthinkable. There, if anyone asked, she had her reasons, legitimate reasons, too.

Orphael saw Herdir slink away as well, but thought less of it than Nelrene. His right arm, which had always given him minor discomfort periodically, buzzed from fingers to wrist, the blackened appendage occasionally twitching reflexively. The sudden onset left him worried. He never before heard of a Mazken suffering a wound that left a mark _and_ continued to pain them after returning from the Wellspring.

--SI--

Not until Duchess Lahallia retired, shepherded by several elite Mazken guards, did Nelrene act. A few well-placed words convinced the others that—even with their bolstered numbers—someone might try something stupid (as the new duchess had mere hours ago, though no one pointed this out).

Nelrene slipped shadow-like into Herdir's domain, the large torture chamber, with his own personal quarters adjacent. He stood at the rack, running his hands tenderly over it, murmuring to himself. She did not have to listen long to realize that the murmured words formed a context about whether to put the duchess on the rack before killing her, or whether to make it quick.

Somehow, Nelrene felt that quick death would lose out. How Herdir expected to get the Duchess in here—much less keep her quiet, for she was an accomplished spellcaster—was up for debate. She did not want to think about the details of the would-be crime, either, so killing him now was certainly a blessing for her mind's eye.

Nelrene, dispelled the ceremonial robes from earlier, pulled her dagger soundlessly, prowling up behind Herdir.

Herdir never saw the knife that Nelrene rammed into his back, nor could he cry out.

His body went heavy and limp, felled by one effective blow.

Nelrene knelt, lowering him quietly to the floor. His head lolled, bringing her face into view as life drained from him. As the light in Herdir's eyes died, his features formed a mix of shock and non-comprehension, an odd tinge of regret…all misted over with inexplicable sadness. The impressions flickered like failed spells across her mind.

Nelrene did not get up immediately, assailed by the oddest feeling of regret, though she could not think why she should feel such a thing.

But the Duchess was safe. And her duty was, for the moment, fulfilled. Nelrene got to her feet. The body could be removed later, the paperwork for Herdir's removal from office should come first.

--SI--

Lahallia leaned on the door to Syl's old room. After she had accepted their fealty, the household had changed the linens in the room, and generally smartened it up for a new inhabitant. They'd also left a small breakfast on one of the tables.

A breakfast sadly devoid of strawberries—the thought of which made her insides squirm. No, _strawberries_ did not make her stomach squirm, she snarled to herself. It was the _Mazken _that made her stomach squirm…though somehow admitting this did not have the effect of lessening the odd feeling she could only label as 'attraction'.

It was ridiculous. Duchess or not, getting fond of this madhouse or not…she was going back to the Apocrypha. It was home. It was…safe. She _belonged_.

But the thought gave her no comfort. In fact, it left her feeling empty, almost…frightened, chilled to her very core in a way never before experienced.

Cursing herself for thinking too hard when tired, Lahallia waved irritably, snuffing out all the lamps, plunging the windowless room into total darkness. Syl might be able to sleep in a bright room, but she preferred not to. The dark was so absolute she had to conjure a small magelight so as not to kill herself trying to traverse the room. She cast the veil to the floor and kicked off the satin slippers. Abandoning the idea of changing her clothes, she simply threw herself facedown onto the bed, hoping rest would claim her quickly and save her from thinking at all.

She settled quickly enough, but it was not dreams which filled her mind.


	40. Chapter 40

Chapter Forty: Hot and Cold

--SI--

_It was dark outside, but the lamps burned dim beneath cloth shrouds, rendering the light gentle. It was forbidden. But they did it anyway. This thing, hidden in the night, hidden from the courts. _

_Short-fingered hands slid along her body…_

--SI--

Lahallia's muffled cry for help, audible because it was fueled by terrified desperation, brought help. The Vision severed abruptly, help coming so quickly it was as though someone had anticipated this sort of trouble, and stood on hand in case it manifested.

Careful hands full of soothing spells seized her, pulling her free of the tangled sheets, suffocating blankets, and the Vision of the past which made her skin crawl and her insides squirm. The voices around her made no sense. She had no time to orient herself before she slipped into another Vision, like a drowning woman beneath the waves.

--SI--

_Water. Full, total submersion, with only one lungful of air between _them _and the surface…somewhere above. But it was quiet here. Safe, except for the rapidly running-out breath. It was a relief from the pain, a horrible searing, biting pain. And the darkness of this watery transition a welcome change from the brilliant light that burned the eyes._

_Floor under feet, a strong kick, and sound began to come back, the sound of water rushing past ears as a body propelled itself towards the surface, shattering the previously mirror-calm waters, as grateful lungs took in deep breaths, and feet found the cross-hatched bottom of the shallow pool. Roiling water reflected patterns on the ceiling, plays of greenish blue light in the dark vaulted chamber. _

_Home. Safety. The very wellspring of life for the Mazken. _

"_Ah, there you are…how are you feeling?" _

--SI--

"Duchess? Lahallia?" The voice held no trace of panic. In fact…it was good to hear someone so calm…

No, Lahallia realized sluggishly as she came back to herself, there wasn't any water. Not even a drip somewhere in the recesses of the magelight-lit room. Bubbles of cool colored lights reflected off dark faces with bright green or blue eyes…was it Vision or The Now? Disoriented, she continued peering about above her.

She was not standing either…the floor digging into her indicated this. But there _were_ faces, here, in The Now. _Mazken_ faces, peering down at her, worried. Lahallia opened her mouth to respond, moving to sit up on her own, only to find her arms still pinioned by her own blanket.

"Or…phael?" she managed, blinking up at the nearest chin. It had to be him. In fact, she sifted through the last few minutes in her mind, it was probably Orphael's voice she heard first, Orphael, who knew enough to be on hand just in case.

"Your Grace." Orphael loosened the blanket, helping Lahallia to sit. She did so steadily, bracing one hand against the floor.

For a moment Lahallia fumbled as to why Orphael—who was rather sarcastic, if in an amusing way—would call her that. Then she realized the other Mazken in the room must be female, and a rude male in their society was quickly put in his place. Nothing had changed, not really, and Lahallia was grateful for it.

A silly thing, this Mazken attitude, but Lahallia knew better than to argue with the established 'way things are done'. Particularly when so few things within the Isles made sense, or were predictable. "I'm all right," she managed to announce, still looking unfocusedly at the deep green rug beneath her knees. The Mazken stirred. "Go." She announced, more strongly, then reached back, her hand touching Orphael's knee through the blankets. She twisted, craning her neck so she could see him. "You stay."

Orphael, surprised and a little pleased, nodded. Unlike most of his comrades he had dispensed with his armor in favor of something more casual, but the warmth of Lahallia's hand on his knee seeped through the cloth. It was, he decided, a good thing he thought to hang around until he knew, one way or the other, whether living in Syl's room would cause her to have Visions. Syl's personality was such that he, even he who had no other experience with seers, suspected it would leave strong impressions.

Apparently changing the bedclothes was not enough.

Being summoned so suddenly would leave anyone discomforted, but with Lahallia unable to cry out, except for one hoarse squeak, he could overlook the sudden summons.

Lahallia watched the boots and knees leave her room, filing out obediently, listening for the click of the door that would seal her chamber off from the rest of the palace. Once she heard the click she hunched forward, leaning heavily on the floor, then flinched as Orphael's hands came to rest on her shoulders.

As her mind reordered itself she realized that no one could have _heard_ her shout for help. But the ring on her finger glittered. Could it have reacted to her panic? Summoned help for the Duchess? In a realm that made little sense, the answer seemed logical enough that Lahallia did not care to find out whether it was accurate or not. It worked for her, and she would stick with it.

"What did you See?" Orphael asked quietly, after several long minutes in which Lahallia simply sat there, looking at the rug.

For a moment Lahallia continued her silent reflection. She knew to whom the Vision belonged: Syl, I could be no one else. "Syl and Thadon." Lahallia did not need to say anything more, to get her point across.

Orphael made a face, as if he had just taken a bite of something bitter and spicy. "That's disgusting." He found the idea of Thadon touching this Altmer in any fashion disgusting. It gave him prickles of irritation—he would never use the description mild jealousy—to think of Thadon touching _Lahallia_, in any fashion.

No, such a thing was disgusting. More so if she Saw from Syl's point of view.

Lahallia nodded in agreement, still shaking.

"And the second Vision?"

Lahallia wondered how obvious it was that there were two distinct Visions. Normally such interest in her Visions made her uncomfortable. However, she suspected Orphael had other motives than simple curiosity.

It could not be that he wanted his future told, or even the mystique of some association with a genuine Seer. She could not say much more than that, except the idea of Visions and their very visible side effects did not bother him. He simply accepted them as part of the condition. Normal.

Memories of others who feared the Gift, feared the convulsions, the unintelligible murmurings, the fit-like manifestation of Sight swam lazily across her brain, mingling with memory of those who would seek to profit in some way from a Seer's gift.

He fit into neither category, so Lahallia took a deep breath, and answered him. "Water. Very deep, at first appearance, but it gives way to a shallow pool. The lights overhead are green and blue. It's…a Mazken place. Almost a holy place," Lahallia detailed, thinking hard so as to articulate accurately.

"Pinnacle Rock." Orphael finished, in some surprise. "The Wellspring." There was no other place in Pinnacle Rock or out of it which matched that description.

"Yes, that was the word. I think it's something from your past." Yes, it was. It had to be. He was the one who had grabbed her. It made sense the Vision would belong to him, as threads Past and Future tended to be strong around him. They still were strong, she realized, but at the same time, they seemed to edge away from her. Whether this was a result of some willpower from Orphael himself—doubtful—or Sheogorath playing with the rules of his own realm Lahallia could only guess.

"Why is that?" Orphael asked delicately. "All Mazken rise from the waters in such a manner.."

Lahallia raised her right hand absently examining the pale fingers, ghostly in Orphael's blue-green magelight. "Because there was remembered pain, from fingertip to elbow, and a remembered bright white light." Her eyes lifted to Orphael's eyes. "What do you know about it?"

Orphael looked away, his expression full of consideration. "It's hard to keep track."

"How many times have you been banished and recalled?" Lahallia could not stop the hesitant question.

Orphael shrugged, not noticeably offended. "…you know we Mazken retain only fragments of our previous lives." Orphael stood up, offering Lahallia his hands, after a moment during which she simply looked up at him, half, swaddled in her blanket, her dress from earlier wrinkled hopelessly, with her pale hair somewhat disheveled.

To her own surprise as much as his, Lahallia let him pull her to her feet, careful not to flinch as his bare fingers met hers. No Vision assailed her, so her eyes dropped to the knot of hands.

"You are neither a lover nor giver of pain," Orphael noted, examining Lahallia's hands, gripped gently by his own. Orphael shifted his thumbs back and forth across her skin. "I wonder why you seem to expect it so often?"

"Pain is a side effect. On Nirn, Vision is often triggered by touch. You've seen it here, too," her voice was barely above a whisper as she said it. "Daedra are particularly strong focus objects…so I brace for Vision…and the discomfort associated." She did not know why she told him. Only that it seemed more harmless than keeping silent on the matter. Somehow…she did not fear sharing the details she would usually keep silent and stifled. "Many seers adhere to isolationist practices. For our own protection…and the comfort of others," Lahallia added almost bitterly.

Orphael did not have to ask to guess someone close to Lahallia had found out about her gift, and reacted badly to it. He shifted his hands so they loosely held her wrists her hands resting open and warm on his forearms. "Have you never had pleasant visions?" Orphael asked, opting not ask something more personal and possibly offensive. Only a complete fool would blunder about and damage the unmistakable trust she showed right now.

Lahallia gave a moment to examine his face closely, trying to find something unpleasant. Mistrust, disbelief, the sort of avarice people usually tried to hide when attempting to befriend a Seer. However—and to her unspoken relief—all she saw was a rather benign look in the Mazken's bright blue eyes. Interest, but polite interest, as if he were very aware he was asking delicate questions. She did not realize, during her moment of scrutiny, that her fingers had begun to explore the region of flesh immediately within reach, just what she could reach by stretching or curling her fingers.

"Sometimes," she answered, not quite meeting his eyes as she said it. "Often the pleasantness is lost in discomfort."

Curiosity itched within Orphael's mind to know what kind of Vision she had thought about when answering the question, but good breeding and the recurring warnings in his mind that this was his Duchess prevented him from being so rude as to ask. Well, at least she knew enough that he was not like the usual questioners. That was something.

Lahallia looked at the bed then shook her head. Her neck ached, but her throat did not feel at all raw. On the whole she simply felt tired. Mortally tired.

Lahallia looked down to find Orphael still clasping her wrists. As soon as she noticed, he politely let go, folding his hands behind his back, as though waiting for something. No quick jerking motions, no apparent worry of catching something strange from a Seer. Something in the pit of Lahallia's stomach wished he had not, but the apparent respect for her isolationist practices could not have been more plain.

"Perhaps," Orphael considered for a moment. Well, she had already shown she trusted him…but it was still awkward to say this... "As part of your security detail, I wish to bring something to your attention. In an official capacity," he added, clearing his throat when he realized his mind had begun to wander once more in the direction of how well the black dress suited the pale-skinned Altmer, and how it played tricks, making her eyes look far too large and innocent for a creature as old as she probably was.

"What?" Lahallia asked, surprised Orphael actually prefaced this, before launching in. The surprise manifested in her face falling, as if at a show of cold professionalism which she might expect from any other Mazken...but not from him.

"It has to do, possibly, with the last time I was recalled to the Isles. The one you just Saw," Orphael began. "Even in the realm of Madness, Mazken and Aureal alike are granted a certain portion more sanity than any other resident…except perhaps yourself," he added, more out of politeness than truth, but at least the cold professionalism had melted, "it is this way so we may protect the Realm from any invasion…and yet, at the same time we are part of Sheogorath's Madness. We cannot learn from fatal mistakes—we do not _remember_ them. Not clearly enough to be of use to us."

"Is this…is this your way of asking me not to think you've gone mad?" Lahallia blinked owlishly up at Orphael then broke her own rule, as much to her own shock as Orphael's. Boldly by her own standards, she reached forward and took hold of his wrist, her fingers warm against his warmer flesh. Vision pushed against her mind, but stayed at bay as Lahallia became aware of how warm his wrist was under her fingers. "Tell me."

Orphael forced himself not to look at the pale hand clasped around his wrist, lest it make Lahallia self conscious. "I do not remember the return you Saw. The last time I was banished, I believe it came about because I was researching things someone wanted left alone. I get the vague impression of…something about books."

Lahallia nodded encouragingly.

"I think that something…_bad_….happened. Something dreadful, because all the Mazken seem to have died from it—there are none of us older than some four hundred years, by our count. I believe this catastrophe had something into do with Order—the same Order that threatens us _now,_" Orphael lowered his voice. "More and more I'm certain of it. The obelisks, the knights, the priests…it all feels very familiar…but I cannot say why." Orphael turned his back on Lahallia, letting her hand slide away from his wrist. "That's the way we remember—vague senses of deja-vu, if anything at all. The fragments are there, and apparently you can see them."

"I'm a Seer, I can't read minds." Lahallia took another moment to process all this new information, and Orphael took another moment to think over what he wanted to say, and how he wanted to say it. Explaining gut instincts to a librarian, used to having things spelled out for her, was not easy.

"Obviously, we repulsed Order that first time, the Isles still stand, the inmates continue to exist and yet…" he paused, Lahallia watching him intently. "And yet I'm not so sure that's what _did_ happen. Forgive me for sounding insanely obsessive..."

Lahallia actually smiled at him, but not in a way as to disregard his concerns. "We call it attention to detail. Please, go on."

Orphael nodded, now knowing what it was like for a mortal to spill out a conspiracy theory, and find a listening ear and open mind. "Too many things don't add up. And never have."

Lahallia gazed at Orphael, assuming some of this knowledge was partly research, partly re-learned after having been recalled from the Waters. Clearly he believed what he said, and she had until now, no reason to believe the Mazken were mad themselves. How could they be, when they were the protection of the Isles?

"Well, I don't think you're mad," she began carefully, feeling her way into the new topic, as though testing an iced-over lake, to see if it would support her weight, or suck her under into icy depths. "We of the Apocrypha have no reliable records of the Shivering Isles, save those which are barely footnotes in greater works. Lord Sheogorath has not suffered any of my kind here," by this she meant Attendants of the Apocrypha, "to make records. I have no information beyond what I have garnered firsthand."

Even the catalogue had somehow fallen from its position of import with regards to her journey to the Isles. Only now Lahallia realized she was not even sure where it was. Certainly she could find it again if she looked hard enough—she was methodical and would leave it someplace predictable—but it remained something of minor importance, if importance it really was.

Orphael could not give voice to his disappointment. The one time her Apocrypha-gained knowledge would come in useful, she drew a blank—or rather, the Apocrypha had no information for her. Without any corroborating accounts, his theory was just that. A theory. "Then perhaps madness is catching," Orphael growled, turning away from Lahallia.

Lahallia did not let this sting. "It is an acceptable theory. If it is true, then we must find out how it was done, and stop it." It was not bad, as theories went. Too well she knew what Cazandra's Curse was, when valid warnings or concerns were dismissed out of hand. It filled in many gaps, but left plenty more.

Orphael irritation over the lack of corroboration made him sharper than he meant to be. "Of course we have to stop it. What if this time, we don't repel them? Imagine Order leveling this entire plane." What good was living in a crypt-like library if you didn't know anything useful? But part of his irritation stemmed from being irritated with her without real cause.

Lahallia twisted her hands, then very hesitantly reached out and touched Orphael's back, between his shoulder blades, letting her fingers settle until she could feel the strong muscle beneath his shirt. "And me along with it," Lahallia said softly. The first thing _she_ would do, if she meant to take over an Oblivionic realm would be to stop traffic in and out of it. "It is…not so bad here as I first thought."

No, it was not. It certainly made the Visions harder to deal with and yet…even if the old rules and protections no longer applied…when had they _ever_ worked perfectly?

"Getting fond of the place are you?" Orphael's tone softened slightly, as the usual vein of sneakiness reasserted itself. The consciousness of her fingers resting against his back, that she had voluntarily reached out to touch him left him feeling sneaky.

Among other things. At any rate, his irritation dissipated more quickly than one could reasonably expect.

Without thinking Lahallia answered, "I could find a few reasons to stay." She regretted the words the instant they were out of her mouth. She blushed, stifling a gasp of shock when she realized she spoke her mind without meaning to. A reason to stay included a certain fondness for this particular Mazken, a fondness she worked very hard to repress.

She would not, after all, _stay _here…she could not! She _knew _how badly people could react to sudden onsets of Vision, particularly when…but this thought fizzled before it got any further. Orphael dealt with Visions like he might deal with a coughing fit.

"Could you?" Orphael smirked as he turned towards Lahallia, raising his hands to hover, open near her shoulders, and slowly bring them closer until they settled like epaulettes. Leaning forward, aware of how very still she stood, he whispered into her ear. "Like what? I'm curious."

Lahallia's posture stayed rigid, but fine tremors began shuddering through her, a sure sign of her discomfiture despite the fact she enjoyed the sensation of being touched by another living being –particularly one as charming as Orphael tended to be, in that sarcastic way of his. However, possessing the Sight and living without much tactile contact for so long left her decidedly out of her depth. Isolation was a fact of life, or so she thought until entering the Isles.

"Like," she answered, dry-mouthed and with as much dignity as she could muster while savoring the feeling of Orphael's hands sliding down her arms until he curled his hands around hers, leaving an echo of remembered warmth in her skin, "a place to sleep where I don't have to dream of Thadon crawling all over me." This thought made Lahallia cold all over.

Surely the Apocrypha's influences were nearly gone, for here was a _joke_ rendered in such a dry vein of humor it was unmistakable. "Understandable." Orphael chuckled, aware of Lahallia's discomfort and somewhat amused by it. For a moment, a very brief moment, he found himself past the walls she put up around herself, able to touch the warmth of a soul caged by fear and self-imposed restrictions of a sort he could not call healthy. It was a shame she had spent so much time with the Apocrypha and its influences leeching away at her. Especially when she so clearly belonged in the Isles.

Her bent of self-inflicted torment proved it. She might not mar the flesh, but she certainly knew how to cause lasting hurts in other ways, and call it for her own good.

"I can think of a few places." Orphael whispered delicately.

Before he could do anything more than breathe words against her neck, Lahallia pulled free, putting several feet between them, startling Orphael. "I didn't need that sort of servitude," she snapped, as much for feeling out of her depth as because some curious part of her half-wanted to take him up on the perceived offer. She did _not_ want to be part of someone's duty. She did not want to risk further Visions, by any sort of contact with _people_. The decision hurt, but it was a pain she was, more or less, used to. The part of her that wanted to throw off the restrictions, the constant suspicion, the constant extremes of painful self-discipline gave one despairing wail before it was snuffed out.

She was a Duchess, he was a bodyguard and she _would not _risk an abuse of power in such a fashion. This was what she argued. The reality was far less lofty and altruistic. She'd panicked. It was plain as that.

The walls slammed up around Lahallia so fast, Orphael would have felt no surprise if he had heard an accompanying sound to go with the resurgence. Her suddenly sharp response wrong-footed him, leaving him confused. "I don't see the servitude, and I don't know what you're talking about," Orphael responded primly. "You're a Duchess–have the household bring you a new mattress. It's part of your _job_ to make insane demands in the middle of the night." Orphael turned the handle on the door, disgruntled. "Good night. _Your Grace_."

"Good night," Lahallia answered back, more for something to say than anything else. The use of the epithet 'Your Grace' instead of her name smacked of spite. It also hurt.

"Who was he?" Orphael asked, pausing just inside the doorway.

"I beg your pardon?" Lahallia's sudden wrong-footedness showed so clearly on her face, she might as well have carried a sign mentioning it.

"The one who hurt you so deeply." Orphael idly considered skinning the idiot alive, but mothballed the idea. What business was it of his, anyway? Yet eh could not think of nay reason why Lahallia should get so worked up when people got past her outer walls. Yes, he should not have made such a half-teasing invitation.

Lahallia did not answer, merely raised her chin, pursing her lips, indicating she did not intend to answer the question.

Orphael wordlessly, and without looking back at her, closed the door behind himself. The click of the door confirmed the end of the conversation.

For a time it had gone on so well…Lahallia swallowed as she let her chin fall almost to her chest, her jaw trembling as she was left alone with her thoughts and insecurities. Now he was gone she realized how much she liked having Orphael about—even when he got into one of those playful moods which so unsettled her. "I don't remember." She answered Orphael's question to the silent room. The realization she had successfully staved off until this point finally reduced her to tears.

--SI--

*Cazandra's Curse – a reference to the so-called Cassandra complex.


	41. Chapter 41

Chapter Forty-One: The Invasion Begins

--SI--

_Tap-tap. _

Lahallia opened her eyes, but did not say anything. She merely gazed reproachfully at the door.

_Thunk-thunk._

"Go away." Lahallia still sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs, her voice toneless, eyes red-rimmed, her complexion blotchy. She had not gone back to bed since the disastrous attempt to rest that ended in Vision, but had dozed fitfully after the fashion of elves. The lack of rest was resultant of stiffness from sitting in such an uncomfortable chair. This, in turn, fueled her bad mood—as opposed to allowing her to sink gracefully into a mire of regret and sadness.

The wakefulness gave her time to take inventory of what she did and did not remember, only to find her memory resembles certain kinds of cheese.

But the stiffness and wakefulness were both preferable to nightmares of Thadon clambering…

She cut the thought mercilessly as her skin prickled into gooseflesh. Some things should not be allowed…though the realization that someone else thought it unacceptable too—and died for it—did not go unnoticed. She shifted in her chair. Today was one of those days when she simply wanted to pack up and go back to the Apocrypha. Nothing crazy ever happened there—not crazy the way the Isles defined it, anyway.

The day was made worse by the memory of Orphael's repeated slurs on the Apocrypha, and the holes in her memory which seemed to support them. He would be pleased to know that for all her wishes to go back, reservations about actually doing so had sprouted.

Again the insistent pounding on the door.

"I said go away!" she barked, standing up just as the door opened, admitting a nonplussed Orphael. For a moment Lahallia would have loved to have thrown something at his head—preferably something large, heavy, and ungainly.

"You're wanted." The conversation which had gone so badly awry hung between them like accusation and mistrust. Neither knew better than the other what exactly to say to clear the air, so the discomfort stayed where it was.

"I'm flattered." Her words contained a cold bite unusual in the Seer. "Now go away." She meant it. She simply wanted to sulk in here, and spend a few well-earned hours away from _people_. Perhaps time alone would let her find misplaced memories in some dark corner of her mind...

...but part of her knew better than to have much hope of this.

"Lord Sheogorath _demands_ you present yourself. Duchess." Orphael stood aside, holding the door, working to ignore the signs of tears and sleeplessness.

Lahallia did not dare disobey this order, as it came from Sheogorath. It would not do to let tensions between Orphael and herself affect anyone else. Particularly a mercurial Daedric Prince. Hurriedly she pulled on gloves and slippers, and her veil.

Orphael sighed, unheard, as she swept past him. As he followed along behind her, easily able to keep up with her brisk pace, he gave the crookedly-hanging veil a tug, to nudge it into place. All indications were that entering a state of quiet warfare with Lahallia would end up as a long, drawn out siege as opposed to a battle of who could shout the loudest. He did not look forward to having to deal with the sullen anger and cold indifference currently on display by the Altmer.

She gave every indication of willful stubbornness—the type who carried a grudge to the _grave_ rather than give it up and make amends if she felt herself in the right. Maybe breakfast and a decent rest might soften her mood, but somehow Orphael did not want to put too much hope in this.

And why should he care what her mood was? He was a summoned bodyguard, not someone included in the Duchess' counsels. But the spiteful thoughts neither helped him, nor gave him ideas on how to hold his own in this sort of fight.

Lahallia stopped, her posture still poker-stiff. The embarrassment of showing up looking disheveled as well as sleepless and troubled would have drawn more attention than she would like. Sheogorath, like a child, would point out such things. "Thank you." The words still came out forced and uncomfortable, but less sharp than before.

"You're welcome." Another tug to the still-crooked veil, and Orphael gave a small push to the small of her back, to let her know she was good to go.

It did not clear the air, or dispel the uncertainty still hanging between them like a curtain, but at least there seemed some hope of salvaging the usual balance they maintained, once tempers finished burning out.

How long that would take was anyone's guess, but Lahallia's walk slowed somewhat, and her poker-stiff posture eased slightly.

--SI--

Lahallia strode into Sheogorath's throne room to find it full, compared to the usual emptiness save for Sheogorath and the discreet detachments of Mazken and Aureals. Haskill stood, as ever, near his master's chair, Sheogorath sat frowning mightily at Thadon, who was gibbering. Behind Thadon stood four Aureals, all looking stoic and uncomfortable.

Lahallia had not noticed her own Mazken—in addition to Orphael—fall in behind her, but the Aureals certainly had. The two troupes of Daedra glowered at one another in mutinous silence, as though they could scarcely believe the other dared _stand_ in Sheogorath's presence, when a position with face to the floor was far more fitting.

Lahallia found this very easy to ignore. It was, after all, Sheogorath's 'divinely tiresome' problem. Not hers. She was merely a Duchess. His realm, his rules. She did not smile, but wished she could.

"_There_ you are!" Sheogorath pounded one of the arms of his throne, giving her a malevolent look. "You've kept me waiting. Look at this!" he waved agitatedly at Thadon. "I'm coping with a problem! Just stand there till I find a moment to cope with _you_! One thing as a time, so I don't mix you both up! I think you'd rather prefer to stay separated!"

Stay separated indeed. Lahallia inclined her head, but did not otherwise move, as Sheogorath huffed in irritation—or perhaps exhausted patience—then readdressed himself to Thadon. "Now…calm yourself, Thadon. You're making my teeth itch. You still hold _your_ office. I suggest you see to your duties."

If Sheogorath seemed ill the day before, he certainly did not seem so _now_. In fact, it looked to Orphael as if all things were right in the Isles…except the impending Order invasion. And Lahallia's temper. But tempers were easier to smooth out than wrinkles in a Realm, as caused by forces of Order.

Lahallia knelt gracefully, but stood up very abruptly, as Thadon hissed at her. Obviously the Duke had quite ignored Sheogorath's hint that the discussion was over. "How articulate," Lahallia noted aloud, to no one in particular.

Orphael smiled—at least, she had a place to vent until she settled back to her usual, rather likable self. She pulled the frigid disdain off so well she could give lessons. Thank madness it was not directed at him.

The Bosmer had plainly been rousted by bad news—and at an inopportune time, such as before his morning…whatever mind-altering substance he used in the mornings. After all, who of Court Dementia (apart from Syl) would do anything to accommodate the needs, wants, or cares of the Duke of Mania? The thought plastered a cruel smile over Lahallia's face. Such considerations were apparently shared by Sheogorath: who cared about the Bosmer?

She could not see it, but as she rose from her kneeling position her face suddenly blossomed with makeup, that around her eyes streaked as if she'd put it on then had a good cry, hiding the redness.

Haskill, without waiting for his master to ask, nodded approvingly at the sudden change in the elf's appearance—all traces of the conscientious librarian were obliterated beneath powder, kohl, and a waxy tint darkening her lips.

Just as well, since she was a duchess now and could not afford to fail to measure up to the expectations of the Demented. It didn't suit to have a prim, librarian-like duchess leading them. Oh no.

"How could you?" Thadon hissed, having to crane his neck to gaze into the implacable, mismatched eyes of the Altmer in black. With the ghastly makeup, the blue eye stood out all the more vividly. "How _dare_ you?!"

"Very easily." Lahallia responded cuttingly, glad to have someone on whom to sharpen the claws of her bad mood, and over whose feeling she would hold no regress should she hurt them. "And out of necessity." After the Visions last night, Thadon was a more gratifying target than anyone else.

"Ridiculous! You can't _do_ this!" Thadon sputtered.

Orphael smiled as Lahallia's next words fell like gentle rain. Really, now her bad mood was dissipating she seemed perfectly in-character for a proper Duchess of Dementia. She also left Syl far behind when it came to looks, and a stature which made looking down on Court Dementia all that much more effective. "But I did. And I have. And there's nothing you can do about it."

By now all the Mazken were trying not to smirk—by and large succeeding, as well. Seeing the Duke put down truly made their mornings.

Smug glances were shot over at the Aureals, who grimaced as they glaring at Thadon's back. How could he stand there and gape like that? No Aureal ever argued with Thadon's manner of conduct, but if it left his brain so jellified that he could only splutter when the Duchess put on such airs perhaps he ought to taper off.

Sheogorath watched with interest, his eyes flickering between the damnably inquisitive Mazken scout, and the Duchess. Yes, something had fractured there—and he didn't like it. He didn't want anything fractured he didn't fracture himself. It was _his_ job! One of the perks of being a Daedric Prince…so the lad had better fix what was broken, unless he wanted to _really_ suffer…forget the barrel of mimes.

The little Duchess had enough on her plate to let the responsibility of making up fall on the Mazken.

Thadon had nothing to say to this, though perhaps this had to do with the freezing look Lahallia was giving him, so he turned his attention back to Sheogorath. "You can't! How could you?" Thadon repeated.

Sheogorath grimaced, scraping the nails of one hand impatiently against the armrest of his throne.

"Although you're omnipotent. Or just tall." He looked at Lahallia as if finding an object of reference for comparison. "It's one of the two, I'm sure. And a fool!" Thadon exploded, pointing dramatically.

Comically, the House Dementia party thought.

"Fool?!" Sheogorath suddenly stood before Thadon, towering over the Bosmer. "Fool?!" The Mazken and Aureals present all backed away, wincing as if Sheogorath's voice echoed in their skulls like chapel bells. Even Lahallia shuddered at the excessive, palpable force behind the words. "The world, little duke, is _visionary_! _Change_ is in the air, Thadon. Breathe it deep! Bathe in its scent! Bottle it up. Save some for later."

Lahallia backed up, unable to take the noise which pointed behind her eyes. The distractionfo noise did not hide from her how the roil of instability that always accompanied Sheogorath's mood swings had changed. It felt more out of control than ever, as though the scale upon which his moods rested had somehow gotten out of balance.

"Order approaches! It's taken the Fringe already!"

Lahallia's stomach plummeted.

Orphael pursed his lips. Order, taken the Fringe? How long ago? Did time really matter? If so, how quickly could they get there, for surely Sheogorath would send her—and therefore him—to confront it?

Thadon's babble about "Order clothes and Order hats" vanished, swallowed in the whirl of dark thoughts spinning in Lahallia's head. _This_ was why Sheogorath needed her. A champion, yes—but someone with mental capabilities not found in the mad, who didn't get sidetracked every few minutes. A general to lead his armies…and obviously he needed someone relatively sane to fill the post.

"And you speak of 'change'?" Thadon spat.

"Change will _preserve_ us! It is the lifeblood of the Isles. It will move mountains! It will mount movements!" Sheogorath bellowed.

The Daedra present merely flinched, winced and tried to hold their ground and retreat at the same time. Lahallia gave a low groan of pain. Never before had Sheogorath's bellowing or moods caused discomfort like _this_. Lahallia did not remain the only one aware of the change in Sheogorath's ambiance.

The only person not visibly uncomfortable was Haskill. Orphael glowered at Haskill. What would it take to shake him up?

"No. No." Thadon squeaked, trying not to cower and failing. "Certainly not. This isn't good. I'm sure it's bad. I can't do this anymore. No more."

Lahallia's eyes snapped to Thadon, her head still ringing in the wake of Sheogorath's shouting. The air still had not cleared of the sudden spike of…well, insanity. The feel of it crawled up her skin like ants, Vision rose up but vanished immediately, like a wave rising from the sea, only to subsume again into part of the whole.

"Then go, Thadon. Have your greenmote. Take a bath." Sheogorath sneered, his hand gripping his staff so tightly the veins stood out along the back. "But leave." He pointed with his staff to the doors of House Mania. "Before I decorate my throne with your insides."

The air loosened up, the painful buzzing inside minds and the ache behind eyes ceased.

"Yes. That's it. I'll go." Thadon murmured, as though struck by a brilliant, luminous thought. When he looked up something like madness glittered in his eyes—but it was not the 'usual' madness Lahallia associated with the Isles. It was almost like…clarity. Sanity. The equivalent of madness to the Isles' equivalent of sanity. "Away. _Far away_. Working for them is like working for us, but without all the dying. Enough! I go to Jyggalag. I give myself to him, as a Priest of Order! This isn't done, Madgod. I think it's just started."

Brave words, but just words. How long could he go without his greenmote fix? Without his Felldew? Lahallia scornfully and audibly sucked air through her teeth.

The Mazken and Aureals moved as one, swords leaping from scabbards, faces set with grim determination, reminding Thadon _their_ first loyalty was to Sheogorath. Whatever else went through the Bosmer's mind, he stopped short, as though debating whether he could get past the wall of Daedra.

"No! Let him go." Sheogorath raised a hand.

The Mazken and Aureals obediently parted, allowing Thadon to scurry away, their bright eyes fixed upon him. Had he looked back, his courage might have faltered, causing him to flee rather than attempt to stride boldly away.

Silence fell and lay heavily as sludge in a swamp.

"Wondering why I let him go, aren't you?" Sheogorath's voice, uncharacteristically quiet, jerked her attention away from the scene she had just witnessed. The Aureals and Mazken shifted, rustling not unlike nervous peregrines. "I can see it in your face." Something in Sheogorath's expression became calculating, almost…methodically analytical. Assessing. As though the something which so often used this shape as a puppet was suddenly looking out at her from behind the puppet's eyes. "Mostly in the eyes. I may take those from you when this is done." Sheogorath rubbed his beard, twirling is staff idly, until it was a blur.

Abruptly Sheogorath returned to normal. Just as abruptly, Lahallia founded herself standing awkwardly on the New Sheoth Palace's roof, her black garments whipped about, necessitating her to grab a handful of her skirts to keep them down where they belonged.

"This has never happened before!" Sheogorath barked over the moving wind, taking in the view of his realm spread out below them. "The ruler of Mania turning traitor? Unprecedented! But different is good. A new act in this play!"

A faint plume of gray, glittering smoke—or more likely dust, Lahallia realized—spiraled up thin and fragile from the Fringe, behind the Isles' demarcating walls. From here, she could see they were indeed walled off from the Fringe form one end to the other by grey stone, oddly clear and detailed, given the distance from which it was viewed. Then again, as her eyes wandered, the places they rested upon became focused, as though she were looking through a telescope.

"Maybe we're on to something here. We'll see how it plays out. It can't be worse than what's happened before." He elbowed her, making her slipped feet shift nerve-wrackingly on the tiled roof—which she was quite sure was not tiled, nor so sharply sloping before. Just as she reached out for something to balance against, her fingers curled around a spire. No sooner had she grasped it than she found herself standing higher up on the sharply canted, steeple-capped tower—which was certainly not part of the palace's architecture—with Sheogorath's head bobbing some two feet below her shoulder, for the spire was relatively narrow.

"If you say so," Lahallia announced, the waxy tint on her lips protecting them from growing dry from fear and discomfort at being so high, with the wind tugging at clothes. It was here she realized she had somewhere lost her veil, and that her hair was now _up_. Which it was not when she'd entered the throne room earlier.

It bothered her less, now, than any such alteration had previously.

"I do. I did. And I won't say it again. But, that's enough about that. You're the ruler of Dementia! Just look at you. You're positively beaming!" Sheogorath beamed, suddenly standing on thin air, putting him at Lahallia's eye level.

If he said so, though Lahallia kept this to herself. It was, after all, a very high turret upon which they stood, and she found herself wishing dearly for more secure footing.

"Do you see it?" Sheogorath asked.

Lahallia's eyes went back to the spiral of Order dust—or whatever it was—like glinting smoke over the Fringe. By now it had risen high above wall, but had stopped, as if met with an invisible ceiling. She suspected the powers of the Isles were keeping the Order-stuff from spreading like fumes of battle, but could not think how long this would continue to work.

If the Fringe could keep Order out, Sheogorath would not have needed her.

Pinpricks of light scattered across the Isles glowed white. Lahallia did not need to ask what they were. Order Spires. Absently, Lahallia let go of the spire, fearlessly walking to the edge of the turret upon which she stood as though under a compulsion.

"He was right about that. I can feel it. In my bones. The little ones." Sheogorath's voice was so close to her ear he could have been whispering into it, though when she looked back, he was leaning comfortably against the thin spire she had previously gripped for balance.

The turret had sprouted a very narrow, flat sort of eave, upon which Lahallia now stood, surveying the Realm and having much less trouble controlling her skirts, even in the wind.

"The Greymarch has swept the Fringe. Order gathers its forces there as we speak. And I hate when people gather forces in my Fringe."

Lahallia's lips puckered. There was nothing wrong with the wording, but somehow it made her want to laugh. Something unwise, when standing on the roof of the New Sheoth Palace with the Prince of Madness.

He might think it amusing to see of Altmer could fly.

"You'll need to put an end to that. Stop them. My armies should be there soon." Lahallia eyes settled on a band of gold-armored Aureals marching towards the Isle-side of the Gates of Madness. "But I want you to see what you can do to help. If Order continues to marshal its forces there, we won't be able to contain them. Make _sure_ they can't." The threat remained obvious.

Lahallia nodded again. "How long will the Aureals be able to stave off the forces of Order?"

Sheogorath was silent, almost as though calculating a definite span of time. With a sigh he gave up trying. "Not long, I don't think. It's getting close…so you should be getting close too. Close to the Fringe! Close to the action!"

Lahallia's knees buckled as she landed squarely in the throne room, one of her Mazken holding her arm, quietly asking if she were quite all right.

Orphael ignored Lahallia's sudden reappearance and disorientation, his eyes fixed on Sheogorath, who pinned him with a cold look. A look that conveyed if he wanted to see the Isles maintained in their usual state of chaos and exotic adventure he'd better apply a little more tact and charisma when dealing with the Duchess.

Or whatever waited in the long run would be _very unpleasant_. Forget clowns, mimes, or Relmyna Verenim. "You'll take your Mazken bodyguard," Sheogorath commanded.

Lahallia grimaced. "A few fewer looks, a lot more work!" Sheogorath barked, but it somehow lacked a lot of its previous intensity. "This is the Greymarch! Fail to stop them in the Fringe and _everyone will die_. Including _you_." Sheogorath pointed at Lahallia, the aura of madness slamming into Daedra and Altmer alike.

Lahallia bowed and walked out of the throne room.

"He means it," Orphael cautioned once the entire retinue was back in House Dementia.

"Of course he does," Lahallia answered, her voice to shaky to come out as a short-tempered snap. On balance, she was glad it had not. "Do whatever you need to do to get ready. We leave as soon as possible."

"Your Grace?" A Mazken Lahallia did not know by name bowed deeply. "Permit us to go with you. If Lord Sheogorath has sent Aureals, he means them only as fodder to slow Order."

Lahallia looked over the Mazken. "Very well. Your name?"

"Eylara, Your Grace."

"Choose your soldiers—a small group that can travel quickly. And," Lahallia added to no one in particular, "if we can travel faster than by foot, now would be the time to do so."


	42. Chapter 42

Chapter Forty-Two: Order in the Fringe

--SI--

The ride from New Sheoth to the Fringe—with promise of reinforcements from Pinnacle Rock waiting there—was almost entirely silent, except for the jingle of tack harnessing the Hungers to the light chariot-like vehicles, obvious parodies of the Dremora with their heavy war chariots.

Still, it was faster than walking, and the whole cavalcade had surprisingly little trouble getting through the Dementia Swamps, and the soggy road.

They rode two to a chariot, a male driving, a female Mazken riding alongside—in Lahallia's case, Orphael handled the Hungers. She had no more practice driving a chariot than she had in leading a small army—as this seemed to her. The whole long way she gripped the front of the chariot, trying not to show how much she disliked this mode of travel. She continually worried she was going to lose her balance and fall out, smashing her head open on the road behind.

That would put a premature end to her stint as a duchess. Deep down she wished they had just walked. It might take more time, but she would feel safer.

To his credit, Orphael was trying not to drive in such a way as would cause Lahallia discomfort, but for someone unused to such conveyance, anything seemed worrisome. It might have caused less trouble if they had maintained their usual balance of camaraderie, but confusion and frustration on both sides lingered.

Hence the silence, borne more from a lack of knowing what words to say than actual animosity or pronounced ill-feeling.

The Gates of Madness loomed ahead. The Order-dust in the air on the other side continued to remain contained by invisible walls, for the air on this side of the Gates remained clear, without even a shadow of the faintly glittering clouds and haze on the other side.

Orphael did not like the look of the dust, and was glad once looking at it put him at risk of crashing the chariot. The morass reminded Lahallia of the Apocrypha's dust—only shinier. Though why Order dust should sparkle was beyond Lahallia. It ought to be, she decided, dead-looking, soft to the touch and utterly blank.

It sounded like the Apocrypha, only...sterile. Devoid of anything. Of everything. It was this which made her wax nostalgic as she slipped past Orphael to step onto the ground as the chariot stopped.

"We'll walk from here," Lahallia declared as the other chariots pulled to smooth, practiced stops.

The entire cavalcade dismounted, chariots and Hungers were unsummoned so the Mazken could fall into their usual ranks and files. Lahallia led the way, apprehension gnawing at her stomach.

The Mazken would have preferred to go through the Gates of Madness into the Fringe ahead of her, but Lahallia point-blank refused to agree with this.

Dressed as befit a Duchess of Dementia—in the black and luminous green armor she had so frequently admired—she felt extremely uncomfortable and unprotected. Her Attendant's garb might not be much more than magicka-enhanced multiple layers of cloth, but it certainly covered more and left more to the imagination than the dragonfly-like armor she wore now. She would not have worn it, had she not seen previously Syl do it, supposing it was one of those things she should do for the sake of tradition, as far as the traditions in the Isles went.

Besides, at the time her concern remained focused on what waited within the Fringe than anything else.

She was right to worry. The place was nearly unrecognizable, compared with her last visit.

No longer did the air shift with currents of Manic and Demented magicka as with breezes whispering overhead. Now magical energy came in little puffs from the Gates, drifting into the Fringe in halfhearted, quickly failing drafts. Ashy Order dust falling soft as snow. Massive shards of the silver-gray crystal, like the Crystal Spires on the other side of the Gates, thrust out of the ground at odd angles, partially encasing anything near the place from which they sprung. These crystal shoots pulsed with subtle, indistinct Daedric magicka, as if whatever fueled them was waking after long dormancy.

The signature was so indistinct, so subtle Lahallia did not notice it right away, and even once she did, she could not make sense of it, identify it, or make any further observations. So this was what order felt like: it was not anything in particular, it simply _was_.

The Mazken sniffled, and several began to show signs of troubled breathing.

Orphael walked close to one of the crystalline shoots as Lahallia led them down towards the place Passwall once rested—the skeletal remains of the village left no one in any doubt that the village itself was likely dead as the land around it. The spire crystal made his skin crawl, leaving him feeling oddly weak, nauseated. His lungs seemed not to want to expend properly. If Mazken knew what it was to have a cold, they would have immediately recognized cold-like symptoms.

Orphael kept his bright eyes on Lahallia's back, wishing she was just a little less bold, a little less determined to lead from the fore. He did not forget his own previous wishes that she would pluck up and show a bit of spunk. Oh, how the tables had turned, and he now had no right to complain.

He did not like the air with which she looked about. To a casual observer, she might appear mildly interested. He was not a casual observer. She was not merely interested, she was _fascinated_. Fascinated and hiding it fairly well.

He glanced up into the falling Order Dust, and ended up catching some in his eyes. He blinked hurriedly, one of the females prompting him to get moving or get out of the way. He did not ignore the good advice, but ignored the giver.

At the bottom of the stairs they found the Aureal patrol dispatched ahead of them. The bodies lay scattered upon the lowest stairs. No one could tell whether the Aureals were attacked while retreating or advancing—just that they lay scattered like some any fragments of shattered dream, their complexions oddly ashen, golden-tinted blood seeping everywhere. Bent and blunted weapons lay scattered with unused arrows, like gleams of dying sunlight on the grey ground of Ordered Madness.

"Like I said," Eylara murmured, turning one of the Aureals over with her foot, ears pricked for anything odd, "fodder." Her own voice sounded too loud in her ears, but the strange landscape seemed to muffle the words before they got too far.

Orphael looked down at one of the Aureals. Her armor showed gray patches. When he knelt to see if he could scrape the ash off, he found it was not ash, but silvery corrosion, like rust. Strange he should look so ashen in death. That couldn't be right.

Lahallia knelt, touching another Aureal's face. It looked to her as though something more than blood was draining from Aureal. "She's still warm."

Getting to her feet she cast around for some hint as to what was happening. Dead Aureals simply looked dead for a few hours, then the bodies dissipated—presumably as the owner of the body respawned at their Wellspring, and the old shell was no longer needed. This much she knew from the events at Cylarne. But seeing the inconsistencies between the dead there and here left her uneasy.

The soundlessness and stillness of the air pressed on her eardrums, but it did not bother her as much as it bothered the Mazken who—whether they realized it or not—clanked and shuffled needlessly, making noises to fill the silence. Without the thick presence of the Isles' brand of magicka, it was easier to breathe, easier to think. Easier to feel logical and methodical.

Not so different from the Apocrypha, but without the usual worried Attendants of that place concerned themselves with. The homesickness she had fought off and on through her sojourn here returned in full force, now she was no longer immersed in madness.

Lahallia caught some of the falling Order flakes in her hand. As soon as the gray mass touched her gauntlet, it collapsed into the fine, glimmering Order-dust she'd originally identified it as. Looking up yielded a view of a gray sky, lit with faint hints of the same lights found in the skies over the Isles—but stifled. The source of the light came from over the Gates, a parody of the sun shining from behind a cloud, casting sunbeams over the land.

Orphael's lips thinned, hoping the other Mazken would not notice that their Duchess was rapidly becoming a duchess in name only. He could see the growing fascination the deadness of the lands here held for her, even if he didn't like it. This alone made him worry More than that, he could see her slipping away—which nearly pushed him to panic. Nearly, for a Mazken who panicked was neither worthy to _be_ a Mazken, and was more dangerous than anything else in a place like this.

But if she slipped much further into this fixation with Order, Dementia might finding itself once again without a Duchess…and he did not want to take part in a real to-the-death fight with Lahallia.

"Lahallia."

Only Lahallia heard him. She turned her hand, letting the dust trickle from her palm, but did not look directly at Orphael, catching him only out of the corner of her eyes. Sickening resentment bubbled in her stomach, mirrored on her expression, and expressions he did not want him, or anyone else, to see.

_They_ might find this place uncomfortable, even horrible…but it wasn't that bad. The longer she walked here, the more she came to realize the place was absolutely devoid of Vision triggers—except for the Mazken crowding together like worried sheep. She had not thought such a place existed. Little cramped pockets, like the space directly about a crystalline spire might occur, but this...

"Come on." Her voice sounded level, but Orphael detected an unusual note in it, but not something he could identify just then. He glanced at the other Mazken, but they did not seem to have noticed anything amiss. Were they so unobservant? Or did they just not know Lahallia well enough to know what it was they saw? Well, there was the answer to his question.

Perhaps it was better for them not to notice—being surrounded by Order was bad enough. The threat of losing the Duchess to it would be worse. They could not lose her. So what if this thought was fueled by personal opinion?

More for an excuse to explore the area, Lahallia started forward again, one hand resting easily on Malice's hilt. She expected to need it, of course—where there was Order there were Order Knights—but she did not need it right this moment.

The sounds of battle, the hoarse cries of tired soldiers shattered the silence as the troupe descended down the long winding path from the bottom of the stairs towards the center of Passwall. Lahallia drew Malice, the Mazken answering the movement by drawing their own swords. "If we find more Aureals, don't kill them. They may come in handy later." Lahallia announced calmly, just loud enough for all the Mazken to hear her before she swept forward.

The fight immediately erupted as the Mazken and Lahallia entered Passwall proper.

The other troupe of Mazken had arrived already, but were decidedly on the losing side. "Fall back! Fall back!" one particularly elegant female shouted, not noticing of the reinforcements. Even as she sought to marshal her forces, and staunch the bleeding from one arm which hung limply by her side she showed no sign of running. This was a strategic retreat, buying time and finding a better battle ground from which to redouble the assault. "We can't lose the Gates…we—thank Sheogorath!" Her vivid eyes fell on Lahallia and her Mazken as she checked for a venue or retreat.

Lahallia was not so enraptured with her surroundings she could ignore the Order Knights brandishing dull-sheen blades, their sightless helmets and faceted armor reflecting dull blacks and greens as distorted reflections caught in them. Malice was out of its sheath with a speed which relieved Orphael's concerns for the moment.

"Wounded to the rear! If you can't fight get back!" Lahallia's mind raced as she darted forward, her telekinesis spell wrapping around an Order Knight's arm, wrenching the appendage—and the sword in its hand—out of position to swing at her. The spell allowed her to get in past the now non-existent guard, a powerful lunge sinking Malice into the knight's breastplate. Sometimes the long reach which accompanied Altmer height came in handy.

Whatever her failings and fascinations, Orphael thought as he hurried past Lahallia, to get between her and another Order Knight, no one could deny she wasn't afraid to get her hands bloody. She certainly was not giving the Order Knights a chance to kill anymore Mazken—or herself. Maybe he was worrying too much. But the half-rapt expression which, for a moment, had graced her features did not fade from his mind.

The four Knights fell quickly to the suddenly-superior numbers. "Report!" Lahallia reached up to wipe sweat from her brow, only to scratch her forehead on the edge of her gauntlet. Apprehension and the general near-excitement generated by a battle pulsed with her heartbeat, making her hands tremble.

The injured female hurried forward healing her own wound as she came, flexing her fingers once she could do so. "Grakendo Udico, Your Grace." In another time, in a safer place, Udico would have happily given a better, more complimentary speech before giving the demanded report. However, in a place crumbing to its foundations under the weight of so much Order, infested with Order Knights and their blasted priests, eloquence was dispensable. "As you can see, we're making a strategic retreat. With your permission, I recommend falling back to a more defensible position."

"Yes, fall back! Back to the stair! I don't want them rushing us!" Lahallia knew enough from living in a library to know when a field officer—which must be close enough a term for Udico's position—made suggestions, a leader was wise to listen. "Eylara—start moving the wounded, I want them up by the Gates…"

For a moment Orphael thought Lahallia was going to send him, the one person most likely to argue with her, along with the wounded. But the momentarily calculating look on her face vanished, and she did not say a word. She did, however, meet his eyes for the first in hours.

This place was, obviously, having a bad effect on her. He could almost see the influences of the Isles unraveling, turning colorless and rigid as she reverted to the prim, quiet, walking ghost the Apocrypha made of its mortal Attendants. If he could have forcibly intervened to stop it, he would have seriously considered it.

"Talk as we walk," Lahallia ordered blandly.

The Mazken responded with trained precision, weapons sheathed in order to help their wounded comrades back to safety. Some already had themselves healed, taking advantage of the lull in fighting, but others did not have that option.

"Your Grace, the situation is grim. As you can see, Passwall is under attack. We are—were—outmatched and outnumbered. Order is asserting itself everywhere…they've gotten very powerful very quickly, and we don't know how." Udico bit her tongue, just admitting Order had the upper hand hurt.

Lahallia nodded, her eyes roving this way and that as she and Udico reached the stairs, at the rear of the mass of Mazken, who now had to squeeze together in order to move up the stairs without dropping, jostling or otherwise making the condition of injured comrades worse. "How did it happen?"

"From what we know, last night, as dusk fell, the spire at the center of town became active. Soon after, the area around it began to crystallize and change. One or two of the residents here survived to bear witness, they were found hiding within the dark corridors guarding the Gates of Madness. Lord Sheogorath sent the nearest detachment of Aureals to hold the Gates—would that he'd sent our people from Cylarne!" Udico bit her lip, knowing the Aureals would have simply moved in and taken the Altars again…but _this_ was more pressing, surely.

"Keep going."

"The Aureal who told us this—a male by name of Mirel—died not long after we arrived here. He was the last. After the land began to crystallize and change in earnest, the Knights came, slaughtering those who remained behind. They've not made a concerted push to take the Gates—it's as though they're waiting for something." Udico shifted. "It's been strange. We arrived here shortly after dawn. The longer we stay, the more…oppressive the place seems. Several of my people are complaining of…of mortal ailments."

Lahallia could have named the general heading under which these ailments fell, but held her peace. It did not hamper the Mazken much int heir ability to fight, so she felt sure they would be insulted if she showed overmuch concern.

"Knights!" Orphael's voice barked. Standing atop the rocks edging the stairs leading up to the Gates, it felt good to be back to doing what he was trained for: scouting. From his shoulder he drew his bow, and selected an arrow, which he put through a Knight's helmet.

He did not consider himself much of an archer but any scout could put arrow to bow. What good were they otherwise? Two more arrows zipped to bury themselves nearby, from the two other scouts left to the Mazken.

"Casters with the scouts! Archers, hold them back! Swords, between the wounded and our rear! Go!" Lahallia barked, books on tactics idly perused in quiet days gone by suddenly blazing across her mind's eye, the information by itself useless, but given the contexts of what she was seeing…

The crystallizing Fringe baked beneath a shower of flame. Fireballs, walls of fire, little flares, turned the base of the stairway into an inferno. By the time the casters halted—and only on Lahallia's word—the ground cracked and smoked, revealing melted pools of silver-gray liquid.

Silence fell again, as unnatural in this place as the crystals marring the once vivid landscape.

"What is _that_?" Lahallia pointed towards a spire, rimmed in white light, like a beacon. She had not noticed it before, more worried about the Mazken than strange lights.

"That's Xeddefen…I…" Udico began.

"There's an Obelisk in the bowls of that place," Orphael's voice announced.

"How do you know?" Lahallia looked up, assessing the Mazken.

For a moment she looked as she always did, mildly surprised at the most obvious—obvious to a Mazken at least—things. Orphael contrived to smirk at her, and tapped his temple. "Forgetting who researched this sort of thing? I know."

"Tch." Udico licked her tongue in censure.

"Then dazzle us with your knowledge." Lahallia responded, also ignoring Udico. The words had the ring of old familiarity, but the clipped way they were spoken—on both sides—made it sound more like an argument than ever.

"As Grakendo Udico—or any Mazken—could tell you, the spire in Xeddefen is believed to be a monument from times past. As far as we know, it's a spire, like any other, but easily defended—which means there's probably a lot of those accursed priests down there, summoning a horde of those twice-cursed knights, and the _reason _they haven't _attacked_ yet is because…" Orphael stopped, his thoughts running out of impetus. Why wait? Amassing forces? No…

Lahallia snorted. Obviously something was focusing the obelisk below—she never saw one the size of that spire. But the assessment of 'monument' might not prove inaccurate. "It's something to start with." Giving the crystallizing town another look—or rather, looking in its general direction—Lahallia started back down the stairs. "I'm going to have a look around. Stay here—Udico, you're in charge until I get back. Eylara is your second. Hold the fort."

"Your Grace…" Udico sputtered, shocked that the Duchess was about to do so many foolish things.

Lahallia stopped walking, but did not look back,. Her posture became rigid as she drew herself up to her full height. "You have your orders, Grakendo. I expect you to follow them." With this cold pronouncement, Lahallia continued down the stairs, winding her way towards the silent town of Passwall.

Udico bit her lip. "She's going to get herself killed." Such a waste, too. None of the Mazken at Cylarne ever indicated the agent who became Duchess was an idiot. They all spoke so highly of here...but this foolishness...?

Orphael squared his shoulders, hopping off his rock. "Of all the stupid…" he began, cutting himself off lest he irritate his superiors. If she wanted to goggle at the mess Order made, fine, he could understand that. But she was not going to do it by herself, and she was not going to do it without someone pointing out the obvious faults of the place. It was what Sheogorath would want, Orphael remained certain of this if nothing else—though the warning to apply a little more charisma swam in the forepart of his mind.

"You heard the Duchess—you're to stay put," Udico snapped, grateful for someone to show her temper to.

Orphael had had enough of females and their tempers, so he snapped back. "She told _you _to stay put. _I'm_ going to talk some sense into her. With the flat of my sword, if necessary," he finished in a determined mumble very few heard.

And among all the Mazken present, Orphael knew he was the only one who really understood the root of her perceived stupidity. It wasn't stupidity. It was denial, and clinging to old, comfortable notions and delusions, because the new possibilities, opening like strange flowers were frightening in their very newness. Which, while it did not soften the stupidity of wandering into an Order Knight infested town did make her situation somewhat pitiable.

It did, however, made Orphael less amiable to the suggestion of using the flat of his sword than he'd ever admit.


	43. Chapter 43

Chapter Forty-Three: A Taste of Madness

--SI--

Lahallia did not range as far as any of the Mazken feared she might. Rather, she moved out of sight, out of earshot, and right into the middle of what was once Passwall. The lack of anything to trigger Visions, the utter absence of past and future left her feeling as though she'd stumbled into a pleasant dream, or blissful hallucination.

To simply walk through the silent streets of the dead town knowing nothing could send her spiraling headlong into the unknown of Future or Past—where no mortal mind ought to go—was a gift unlike any other. Though the Order-flakes did settle into her hair, thick and uncomfortable. The dust of the disintegrated flakes worked its way beneath her armor, coarse against her skin, like ash, or powdered pumice.

The crystalline growths glittered, prompting her to take a closer look. As she wandered in the direction of Xeddefen she found the crystals glowed faintly, as though life beat in them—though the ground at the base of these shards looked even deader than ever. Certainly all the vegetation was gone, but the dirt, too, seemed to have died.

Lahallia's gauntleted fingers came to rest upon a growth of crystals. The glow within seemed vaguely familiar to her, faintly golden even through the matte-looking crystal encasing it. The dark reflection of her own face moved smoothly over the facets as she peered into it.

Lahallia straightened at the sound of boots crunching on the Order-flakes piling upon the ground. "I thought I told you to wait." It was as though he'd walked in while she was dressing, disturbing her when she did not want to be disturbed, bringing Past and Future along with him like shadows.

"You told Udico and Eylara to stay put," Orphael responded, watching Lahallia's posture change. The Order-dust still made his nose twitch, but more than that he could almost feel tiny particles of it filling his lungs, clinging like the spores of Mania, only deadlier. So this was how Sickly Bernice always felt: aches in the very skin, stiffness in all muscles, tightening of the throat and crackling in the ears.

"I meant all the Mazken to stay put." He _would_ find a way to twist her words. She supposed she ought to fault herself, if anyone, for letting it happen. She knew he was contrary, she should have paid more attention to the orders she gave.

"What? So you can get yourself killed by Order Knights?" Orphael continued glowering, partly to hide his worry. She seemed to stand behind a gray, transparent curtain, which let her blend into the dead landscape. What if it sank in, absorbed like sunshine, returning her to the pale gray moth she was while fresh from the Apocrypha?

Lahallia turned on her heel, glowering at the Mazken, who glowered right back. For a moment she chewed on her lip, looking for words sharp enough to throw at him, but failed to find any. It was hard to show spite when the motivation came from concern—whether personal or professional, it did not really matter.

But Lahallia thought, for a moment...the concern might be personal. Which was why she snorted audibly before stalking off, aware. The flutter of pleasure at the concern irritated her. Why should it matter? He was, after all, worried about her life because Sheogorath currently valued it. That was all.

Her conscience pricked her over this assessment, which so devalued a stalwart companion. "Go back and join the others." She needed space in order to wrestle her own thoughts. That part of her, which found the Isles not nearly so unpleasant as she was wont to argue they were, reared its head in defense of the Mazken she was devaluing. She knew quite well she was not giving Orphael enough credit in any way shape or form, because she refused, in all her aligning of thought, to admit the one critical factor.

She _did_, whatever she might say to the contrary, _like_ him. More than like...but she cut these thoughts off too—they brought to the surface other issues she did not want to deal with. Not here, not now...not ever.

"You first. _Duchess_." Orphael retorted, noting the pink tinge suffusing Lahallia's neck and shoulders. More than that, he found subtle signs of perturbation of mind. Maybe she wasn't such a lost cause as he first feared, if she could still color up with anger, instead of peering at him like a witless wonder as she tried to logic a retort out.

Lahallia turned, mouthing wordlessly. The effort involved in trying to find enough spite to cram into her words left her inarticulate. "I…" she stammered, her lips trembling, caught between the old and the new, the current danger and the ones she never appreciated, the things she accepted as true, and the sinister whispers bringing unappreciated danger close enough to breathe upon her neck.

She should hate him for it. Should hate him fiercely. " You..." But again, no words came.

Forget charisma. Lahallia was of two minds, any fool could see that. Orphael considered himself many things, but a fool was not one of them. Perhaps this inner division was _exactly _what he was looking for. It might make her easier to convince than at any point previously, where she clung to the old way of thinking, the old lines, the old paradigm with such fanatical determination. Perhaps this conflict of thought was the wedge he needed.

"What are you going to do?" Orphael asked before striding past her, towards the faintly glowing Order Crystal. It felt dead to him, empty, devoid of anything and everything. "You can't even _insult_ me properly." The hint of disappointment in his tone did nothing to soothe Lahallia's state of mind. "I wonder where all your fortitude has gone. Really—this place is having such a nasty effect on you."

"This place…" Lahallia snarled promptly, "is…it's…_perfect_…" Even as she said it she knew it was not true. It was _familiar_, it reminded her of the Apocrypha, when she'd thought the place safe and secure. A sanctuary. But the longer she stood here, irresolute, masking doubt with anger, the more she realized that a dead place was a dead place.

She was standing in the middle of a graveyard. The only reason she realized it was because she was not the only living thing there. The presence of another living, vibrant personage cut a sharp contrast to the Ordered Fringe.

"Are you sure?" Orphael did not need extraordinary powers of perception at this point. Lahallia's composure when she was lying was touch and go on the best of days. With her so troubled in mind, it was no surprise everything was right there on her face for anyone to see.

"Yes." The word launched like an arrow, more out of spite than truth. She knew he did not believe her. She did not believe herself…was not sure she knew what to believe…

"Well, I suppose I can see the attraction," Orphael changed tracks. "I never had you figured for a necrophiliac before." Her color turned several shades redder, and for a moment he saw it, like a flash of light in the darkness: fear, confusion, the desperate wish to make up her mind with certainty, the resurgence of that seed of instability buried deep in her mind.

"I…_what_?!" Shock drove out anger for a moment as she goggled at Orphael. Under any other circumstances she might have laughed aloud in incredulity. Now, however, the words were hideous, insulting, appalling! She alone knew how close she had let him get, with regards to the usual boundaries of personal space she insisted upon. If she was into _dead_ things...

...but she cut this thought short too. Why should she argue _his_ case when she had her own?

The Mazken shrugged, choosing his words carefully, "Well, you love dead places…" he waved to the Fringe, "you live in a crypt…_The _Crypt." The sting would find it's mark—it always did. This was no exception.

"The Apocrypha is not a _crypt_!" Lahallia's voice cut shrill through the silent air, unnaturally loud, even with Order's muffling influences. She did not understand the sudden urge to cry like a child welling up behind her eyes and in her throat. If she had examined the reaction closely she would have recognized it as the sinking in of truth, and the disillusionment stemming from it.

"Who are you trying to convince?" Orphael latched onto the protest in a trice, moving towards Lahallia, who gave way, her expression a mix of shock, fear, pain and…something less definable.

He was getting to her. He did not _like_ this tactic, but it had to be done. She could not continue swinging like a pendulum between Apocrypha and its close cousin Order, and Madness. It was not healthy. It was not _safe_. A little less sanity might benefit her, but shattering her mind completely...no, he did not want to see that.

"It's _not!"_ But the gaps in her own memory paraded themselves before her mind's eye. Her lover, ------, who broke her heart. Her little brother, ------. Her best friend, growing up, whose ------ eyes wreaked such havoc on the local lads and made her—Lahallia—burn with jealousy.

The memory of strawberries without context, now supplanted by a memory of strawberries and an almost seductive vein if teasing from a Mazken with vivid eyes. Of all the old memories and fragments thereof, this one alone with its new context remained vivid. The only real thing among sketches of past events, rendered in flat, even tones.

Lahallia's heart seemed to slow down, painfully slow. Here it was, a wall of unassailable facts. Memories lost key details, seemed drab and dead...while more and more fears of the outside world, _the world outside the Apocrypha_ had gnawed at her, until she could no longer set foot out of it without a great deal of motivation and scrounging up of courage.

Was she always so afraid of things? Even of Vision? It was hard to live with, impossible to predict or prevent...yet how long had she lived among other people in spite of it? How many years of life passed before she settled between the pages of time in the Apocrypha?

Or was the staggering fear of Vision like the fear of leaving the Apocrypha...something to keep her from going away, to chain her there?

"So you keep saying," Orphael dropped his voice to something gentler. Lahallia, of all people, looked ready to either cry, or explode in Dementia brand madness, in her case the kind of madness where the subject ended up hurting no one so much as themselves. "Tell me, how much of your memory has it sapped away? Can you remember your parents? Can you remember that fool's name? His face? Your favorite color?"

"Green." This at least she did know…no, wait. Green was her favorite color _now_. Green, like dragonflies. Like Mazken eyes. Like Dementia's heraldic colors. But she could not answer the other questions. Looking up, she found Orphael watching her, radiating calm immovability.

"Progress. You can't deny that's what it's doing. But I suppose you're still trying to ignore the nastiest secret of that gray Crypt…"

"...don't..." She could not finish the sentence. She already knew what he was going to say, more or less. She did not need to hear it. She did not _want _to hear it. The anger previously fueling her vanished, leaving her cold and hollow as the Ordered Fringe.

Orphael forced himself to ignore the pained pleading in her tone, and the appeal in her face. Like setting a bone which had not healed properly the first time, it had to break first before it could mend.

Lahallia backed away, mindless of where she went, so long as it took her away from the Mazken—or rather, the horrible facts he represented. Despite her feeble attempts to escape the unpleasant truths, the destruction of the last comfortable notions she possessed, Orphael held her nearly spellbound.

"…the longer you stay, the more it saps everything that you are. It's why you find Seers, unique people, in its halls. Their presence reassures others that it's a safe place," his tone grew gentler, as if doing so would make the words easier to take in, lend them veracity. "What happens to the Attendants, Lahallia? They don't see them grow old—not even the short-lived races. They don't die, unless they're _killed_. They just…disappear…did you never wonder where they went?" Part of him wondered when he found all this out, or how he knew—but as with so many things, he simply accepted the knowledge without questioning the source.

"They…." but she could not finish the sentence. Even her lips went cold at the implications which sprang to mind before Orphael voiced them.

"…are sapped into the pages of their own catalogues, the person, their prophecies—how much more unique can a book get, I wonder? All the Oblivionic Realms know it. Yes, it's a very safe place," Orphael nodded, the path of his argument, his _winning argument_ crystal clear before him. "Because nothing that goes in ever comes back out. Except you. Surely you've noticed how _different _you feel these days? How _alive?_"

_This_ was what Sheogorath had wanted. Not someone who was very charismatic, but someone not afraid to talk sense to the Altmer, to give voice to the hard words and difficult subjects. To strip her delusions away until she made a _choice_, between the slow rot into the pages of a book labeled _Kiranni_, _Lahallia—Life and Prophecies_ and _living_ as the esteemed Duchess of Dementia.

Any personal reasons for wanting her to stay were secondary. Secondary, but very much present.

Lahallia turned very pale indeed, her expression proud and cold. Inside, however, she was screaming, hating to admit what she knew was true, hating him for saying it, hating herself for listening, hating it for being true…desperate to believe the old illusions, to cling to the delusions she had accepted in going to the Apocrypha. That it was safe. That it could protect her—more or less—from her Visions…

…and knowing it hadn't. Not really. It had caught her, twisted her, warped her until she was just a gray shadow of her former self, ghostlike.

"I'd take Order over Madness any day," Lahallia announced coldly, one last time to see if it really brought her any comfort, or if a single grain of truth remained to it. There was no comfort, no truth, no reason to persist in the words.

"Would you?" Orphael did not believe her. Her tone lacked the usual force of decision more than ever. He had managed to destroy her faith in the most deeply-rooted things she regarded as truths. "Would you really?"

Lahallia started towards Orphael, unsure of what to do once she got within arm's reach. Once she was within reach she drew a hand back to slap him—she could think of nothing else to do, only that she had to do _something_.

He expected as much, and took it as a good sign. A slap was an insult, not an effective way of fighting. And from Lahallia it represented an unwillingess or inability _to_ fight. When he caught the blow, so feeble it did not even make his palm sting.

For a moment the Lahallia found her old fire, but the tussle was brief, ending with Orphael twisting Lahallia's sword arm behind her, and planting his other hand on the back of her neck. This allowed him to push her against one of the larger Order crystals which previously held her so enamored. "There you go!" He leaned his weight against her neck as she struggled, her cheek pressed flat against the Order crystal. "There you go! Order—up close and personal."

Lahallia's head began to buzz, the crystal making the Daedra seem that much more vivid. She felt trapped, caught between two rock-solid walls which pressed against one another, squishing her flat. Orphael felt her start to shake, but unlike the throes of Vision these were simply fine tremors of stress. He leaned in, whispering against her pointed ear, "It's _dead_, Lahallia. It can't save you. It can't protect you." But they—the Mazken—could. He would, if she let him.

Lahallia heard his words, but heeded more the tone in which they were uttered. A tone which betrayed a little too much personal opinion. She hated her current position, but could not rid herself of liking Orphael's proximity. Half-forgotten emotions began to push up through the dead spots of her heart like the first crocuses of the year.

Orphael shifted as Lahallia went lax, ceasing to resist altogether. "You're hurting me." It sounded clichéd—Lahallia knew it did—but it was the truth. The pain vanished as Orphael eased the pressure, but did not slacken his grip, suspicious of the fight having suddenly gone out of the Altmer.

"It can't _cure_ you," Orphael turned Lahallia to face him, intent on finishing what he meant to say, regardless of the pained, reproachful look on Lahallia's face, "because _there is nothing wrong with you_." Orphael took a step back, so Lahallia could stand on her own, without leaning against the Order crystal. He let go of her arm, half-meaning to touch her face, but stopped almost before the idea finished flickering through his mind. No, she would not appreciate it just now. Give her a minute decide whether she was really angry with him still.

He hoped not. He was the one to put that expression on her face, he would like to be the one who soothed it away.

Lahallia's eyes stung. For the moment all thought of struggling or fighting fled in the wake of Orphael's last words. She looked at him, but for a moment did not actually see him. He finally hit on the right words. _There is nothing wrong with you. _Her face showed something like hope, of which she was half-afraid. Her tone, like her expression, did not match the sentiment she chose to voice. "I hate you."

It was a terribly bad lie coming from a terribly bad liar.

"Liar." Orphael used the hand still cupped around the back of her neck to draw her forward, catching her lips with his.

After a moment in which she simply stood there, as though part of some absurd statue, something in her posture softened. The kiss surprised her, coming out of the blue as it had, but once the initial shock faded, any thought of protest faded with it. Her lips parted slightly, one hand drifting to rest against his upper arm.

Her lips were waxy, tasting vaguely of the makeup she'd worn since Sheogorath's argument with Thadon—but she seemed to have moistened her lips with her tongue so often she had succeeded in clearing most of it off. As Orphael gave in to the guilty desire of finding out what Altmer kisses tasted like, Lahallia did not pull away, even through the nibble on her lower lip was sharp, almost painful. In fact, far from rebuffing his attentions, she edged a little closer, cautiously enjoying the attention, hesitantly encouraging it.

By this time, Lahallia had forgotten the revealing nature of her armor—and Orphael's. She remembered the fact now, as skin brushed skin as he coaxed her to stand closer to him, tilting her face towards his own, gauntleted fingers tracing across her nearly bare back. She let him kiss her a second time, and a third, curiosity burning away irrationality.

He tasted…dark, enticing—which made her wonder if there wasn't something to the colloquial title 'Dark Seducer'—and she could feel Dementia magicka moving like the tendrils of Past and Future hanging about him.

But no Visions came.

Or did they? Were the ghostly hands on her skin real…or something from Future? Did it matter? No, it did not. What mattered was the Now, and only the Now.

Orphael leaned back from Lahallia, taking a moment to memorize the details of her face, softened and flushed rosy pink, finally devoid of the gray mist which previously clung to her. He glanced past her shoulder at the glint of gray crystal and carefully, sneakily but with the motive of fining out once for all whether her fascination with Order was broken, let her lean back against it.

Lahallia jerked as though burned when her skin came in contact with the cold, lifeless Order crystal. She didn't like the feel of it, suddenly. It was no longer safe. It just…was…

Dead. Lifeless. It made her skin break out in gooseflesh. She pushed away from it, bumbling into Orphael who, having hoped for as much, stood ready to catch her before she lost her balance.

"…I…" What? Lahallia's mind had not yet caught up with her mouth. It was certainly not her first kiss, but the first in...how long? The time gap lent a sense of newness to the age-old gesture, making it something to savor.

"...have a choice to make." The last thing he wanted to do was abandon the stolen moment where Order did not threaten, and Madness did not hang in the proverbial balance. If there was ever an exception to his general rule of seeing the mortals as sheep to be protected and not much else—she was right here.

And like any drug, the one taste of her—the smallest possible to his way of thinking—left him wanting another. Or maybe just more. "Are the things of Madness truly so horrible?" Lahallia did not answer, but something in her jaw tightened. "Here, you can _live_, instead of _exist. _You're a Duchess—a hero. You've subjects who respect you, protectors…" Orphael stopped abruptly.

Lahallia opened her eyes. The past few sentences had erased their tiff in House Dementia, when she had let timidity and fear bring out sharpness and pride in an attempt to chase away the thing that left her feeling so out of her element.

Which was why she knew what he stopped in order to avoid saying. She had given him an answer to that already. An answer she'd not thought out: _I don't need that kind of servitude_.

But it wasn't servitude. Lahallia now knew it. Orphael looked away from her face, trying to recollect his thoughts. A few minutes of inspired argument...and now back to the usual order of business. So much for charisma. "You said you could think of a few reasons to stay…"

"I could." Lahallia leaned against Orphael, grateful when he wrapped his arms around her. Sometimes words were just in the way. Without a word forgiveness was given, and affection accepted. "…I will fight Lord Sheogorath's war. And stop the Greymarch, if I can." Deep down, if she was honest, Lahallia was not sure she _could_ go back to the Apocrypha, now the truth was visible and acknowledged.

But she did not want to give Orphael another reason to feel smug.

"It's the most we can ask of you." But it brought his mind back to finding 'reasons to stay'. Surely she could find a few, between now at the time when departure would be considered. She might not go back tot he Apocrypha—he felt almost certain she would not—but she might go back to Nirn, which was, to his mind, almost as bad.

She belonged here. Sheogorath was not the only one who thought so.

"Most people would have said thank you," Lahallia noted dryly, almost playfully.

Orphael's eyes snapped wickedly. He gently seized her upper arm, leaning over to breathe against her lips. "Most women wouldn't tell the man on whose lips they're chewing that she hates him."


	44. Chapter 44

Chapter Forty-Four: Retaking the Fringe

--SI--

Lahallia trotted up the stairs to where the Mazken had fortified their position as best they could. Overhead the sky continued to darken with Order dust and unimaginative, flat gray clouds, to the point where only faint hints of green and rosy light from Mania and Dementia peeped past the Gates like the last rays of dying sunlight. No one cherished any hope of those lights braving the press of Order for much longer, and resigned themselves to a battle in the gray, much as they might resign themselves to a battle in the dark.

The summoned Hungers accompanying the Mazken—all handled by one or two of the males—hissed in warning, but did not attack. They skittered and hopped about, tails lashing and claws tapping against the ground, though they moved carefully, as though the Order dust irritated their skin.

Definitely a wise move, calling in all the help they could, Orphael approved. Particularly since he could not imagine Lahallia heading over to Xeddefen by herself—or even with him alone in tow. She would probably leave Udico, but Eylara was a good pick. Kettir was a good archer, but against Order Knights…arrows just did not have the same effect as a good solid sword strike.

No, she came back here to pick up a little extra muscle and—luckily for her—she had a good pool from which to draw. "Is there anything to a Knight for a Hunger to feed upon?" Lahallia asked of no one in particular.

Udico's eyes glittered beneath her knitted brows. "We'll soon find out. If not, all the worse for the Knights. Hungers don't take disappointment well." She bared her strong white teeth at the Hungers, prowling like parodies of nervous dogs near their handlers.

Lahallia watched the travesties of life shifting and twisting in ways which seemed impossible to any creature with a backbone. The wasted, emaciated things, ravening and insatiable, left her mildly disgusted but not disapproving. Hungers had uses—and here doubly so. What to attack first? The Mazken with a sword, or the hunger gnawing on your leg? And while attacking one, what to do while the other took advantage of your preoccupation?

A cold calm settled over her again, possibly aided by the knowledge nothing could arbitrarily trigger Vision here. Even as this thought occurred to her, to her own surprise she found the fear of Vision lurking like a skulking shadow in the face of the trouble with Order before her. For the moment present need drove it back, and kept it at bay. If only it could last.

"Excellent. I should like to see this…disappointment." Like unleashing termites into a tree, Lahallia supposed.

Orphael's skin crawled, though not in an unpleasant way, at the sudden ruthlessness—a wholly, undiluted Demented attitude. While holding his tongue in the presence of Udico, he could not help assessing the situation on his own. He sneezed, his thoughts disrupting. The smell of Order, dry and dusty, pervaded not only his nose, but his mind. For a single moment, he thought he could _see_ as though through a crystalline helmet.

His right arm burned so intensely for a moment with remembered pain, which almost seemed to reach into the present, that he dropped his sword. It rang on the pavement. Trying not to show himself in pain, he stooped to pick it up, ignoring Lahallia's expression of concern, and Udico's of distasteful embarrassment.

What sort of Mazken, Udico mentally snorted, would drop his weapon in a place like this? She did not, however, reprimand the action, but looked away. The Duchess' expression indicated she was more worried than embarrassed by the clumsiness of one of her retainers.

Lahallia watched Orphael pick the weapon up, left handed. Udico did not notice the way Orphael's right hand did not seem to want to work. Lahallia caught his eye, however, but he shook his head. Now was not the time.

The burning sensation already subsiding to a tingle in his fingers made him wonder what triggered it. Still, every time he tried to flex his hand the sensation pins and needles ran form fingers to elbow. There was no way he could hold his sword properly.

He sneezed again—all this Order dust was really beginning to cause him problems. He looked at his tingling hand. Was it the Order dust causing this reaction? How could it be? Could Order concentrate itself, somehow, and so affect an Isles-bound Daedra? But none of the others seemed to suffer anything worse than respiratory complaints.

A very unpleasant feeling of memory, important memory, lost to the Waters of Oblivion. He could only hope this lack of memory would not carry a heavy price. But the tingle in his hand, even after several trips through the Waters, and the blackened tint of the skin past normal shades made him certain whatever it was important.

Udico bowed her head to hide her expression, ignoring Orphael and his dour musing. She knew him well enough to know it was not important—not when compared to Order and the plans Her Grace was now making. If Her Grace wanted Orphael, it was her choice, her whim. Udico could not say in all honesty Orphael was a bad pick. Still, the way he was acting these days…

By now all the Mazken had heard this was a Duchess in the truest, most Mazken sense of the word: strong, cunning, unrelenting, and driven to achieve victory—but not at the cost of uselessly throwing away the lives of her soldiers. And unlike Syl, she did not cringe in the palace, but faced trouble head on. Pride swelled in Udico's chest, happily leaving Orphael and his attitudes be in favor of better things.

Surely _this_ was Lord Sheogorath's most favored retainer, and any idiot could see why.

"If the only way to stop the influx of Knights is to destroy their obelisk, spire, or whatever crystalline _thing_ they have down there, this we shall do." Lahallia did not waste time in further pleasantries, aware of Orphael's eyes on her back. It made her skin prickle, which was why she continued so crisply. "Udico—pick out four of your best, Orphael and I will make six. We will go deal with the…obelisk."

She could not refer to 'crystalline spire' as she normally would, because of the upper spire which needed a term for itself. Obelisk, the other colloquialism, would have to suffice for now.

"The rest of you hold the fort here. We must not let Order take the Gates." Lahallia glanced unnoticed back at Orphael. He had his sword back in his right hand, but still looked troubled. However, he did not hint in any way a lack of capability for the upcoming attack on Order.

Udico opened her mouth, but stopped. Six was the number of Mazken Lahallia and her fresh troops saved, and even then most of the troops were men. She couldn't very well send them with the Duchess—who ever heard of a duchess taking second-rate help when storming an enemy fortress? But at the same time, how could she keep them here to defend the gate? Where was the priority…? For the first time in a long time, Udico's head spun with conflicting interests.

Lahallia perceived it and grabbed the reigns of this detachment. She might as well, Duchess as she was. Better start acting like one. "Fine, you, you, and you two," Lahallia pointed out four Mazken at random—Eylara being one, the other three men, all of whom looked pleased to be selected. Orphael smiled, now Lahallia wore her duchess' mantle properly, she was just the sort of person who could take control of a situation like this and steer the Mazken to victory. "You've been volunteered."

_Volun-told_, more like it—any Mazken here would jump at the opportunity to go with Lahallia into danger. Obviously she had no idea—or refused to accept—that such 'volunteering' was the bestowing of an honor unlooked for by most of this group. Orphael could not think of any better picks for the job.

The Mazken Lahallia selected would stay close to her. In Eylara's case to the point of fanatic devotion, since such was Eylara's bent when loyalty was won. The other three would move the foundations of the Isles to prove themselves, and garner praise from the Duchess, or prove their worth and devotion to House Mania.

Never mind how Lahallia was an easier mistress to please than any Mazken woman, coming from a place like Nirn, where it was generally the men in charge. Duchess of the Realm or not, she still carried certain backwards views, to the Mazken way of thinking.

Lahallia would likely find herself having to step over dead bodies before she could get anywhere near an opponent. Whether they be Order Knights struck down before she could get to them, or her Mazken dying faithfully to keep her from harm. Orphael did not snort, knowing where this line of thought came from, but he had no intention of ending up as one of the latter.

He had no desire for his memories to dissipate in the Waters of Oblivion. Her would remember her as his Duchess when he got back, nothing else.

When Udico tried to catch his eye, Orphael merely shrugged. Surely _he_ would not presume to meddle in the affairs of his superiors. His smirk ruined the attempt at an innocent expression.

"That's enough out of you," Lahallia finally noticed the smirk as well, but looked amused by it instead of irritated. "You can go first." She pointed with Malice toward the ruin of Passwall.

Orphael cut a courtly, sarcastic bow. With a swagger, and still-tingling fingertips, he started off at a brisk pace.

--SI--

The party of six—accompanied by as many summoned Hungers—wound their way through the ruins of Passwall. Lahallia did not voice her worries when half her Mazken wheezed as they marched along, their breathing labored, or uncomfortable in their chests. Udico mentioned symptoms of illness, due to the Order dust falling like snow from the sky, but Lahallia thought it a minor condition, until now. She noticed, too, the minor troubles at first, but now it seemed to have grown so out of proportions he debated sending them back to hold the Gates.

Practicality intervened, eliminating this plan from the list of viable options.

But no one complained, even when Eylara finally stopped, coughing with a rasp which caused her pain, evidenced to onlookers in the way her hand gripped the region of her breastbone. "It's the Order dust…" she panted in response to Lahallia's worried look, her voice rough, her eyes watering. "It gets into everything…it gets worse the longer we're here." Udico's ears seemed to have stopped up, something muffling the sound. The pressing silence was like real pressure against her eardrums, almost painful.

"Then we'll have to do this quickly," Lahallia answered. The idea of invading Xeddefen alone still did not appeal to her. It would certainly not appeal to the Mazken, so to spare their honor as Dementia loyalists, she continued to say nothing.

"Of course, Your Grace—forgive me for holding us up," Eylara straightened, still massaging her breastbone as if she could somehow reach her lungs as sooth the scratchiness prickling them.

"What can we expect in Xeddefen, besides Knights?" Lahallia asked no one in particular, as they waded their way across one of the pools of standing water—previously stagnant and glassy by comparison to how it looked when Passwall had flourished. The quickest way—as anyone knew—to get somewhere was to head in a straight line. And with Order so prevalent here, Lahallia felt more confident trying to get to Xeddefen by going in a straight line than she would have done trying to get there if Madness still pervaded the area.

"Probably nothing. The Knights slaughtered the citizenry—I doubt they will have much more use for the Grummites infesting Xeddefen," Eylara answered promptly.

Lahallia nodded as the looming edifice of Xeddefen's outer wall loomed. She would like to know where all this Order was coming from, what the driving force, the lead head of the hydra was. Her suspicions no one could tell her—except perhaps Sheogorath, if he could keep himself lucid for a moment…

…Lahallia frowned. When had Sheogorath _ever_ been lucid? Daedric games were, she reminded herself, never straightforward. She could only move ahead and watch her step as she did so.

--SI--

The heavy doors of Xeddefen were locked, guarded by a pair of Order Knights, like crystalline statues in the crystallized courtyard. The Knights, heavily outnumbered, worried Lahallia less than the locked doors. The Mazken and Hungers made short work of the Knights, so much so that Lahallia merely strode straight for the doors, arriving at them to find nothing to hinder her.

The Hungers seemed perplexed by the dead Knights, sniffing and snuffling at them, but again anxious not to get too much Order dust on their bellies.

Lahallia touched the heavy figured stone, feeling the hum of Order behind it, a dweomer of its own by comparison to the hubbub of magical energies suffusing the Isles. And yet, surprisingly enough, there was no disruption of one to accommodate the other—as so often happened. Too often when Daedra crossed over to Nirn—or those mortal races into Oblivion—casters found themselves with minor spell trouble.

The dweomers of Order seemed to simply _replace_ the dweomers of the Isels. As if the land deadened because its very essence was sucked from it, possibly by the Order Spires.

"Can you get it open?" Orphael asked, his voice rough from the Order dust. Perhaps it might be better inside, where the stuff did not fall like snow, or volcanic ash. It had to be, and he was not the only one to hope it.

"Yes." Lahallia did not think before she answered, but laid her hands flat against the door, giving the Order force behind it a magical 'shove', hoping to force it far enough back to open the door. For a moment the world spun, swam, as though her power were suddenly draining out of her.

The door swung open, however, freeing her from the drain. Lahallia's brow immediately beaded with sweat, her breathing becoming labored. It seemed to her the theory of 'magical drain' on the Isles might be accurate—though why _her_ power, so inherently different would fall under the dominion of the drain perplexed her. She was no Daedra, no native.

Or could the power of the Isles, which kept it apart from the Waters of Oblivion, be suffusing her as well?

Impossible. A Daedra was a Daedra, an Altmer and Altmer, and she had no time for philosophical discussions about the nature of magicka, or how Order operated—though the latter had undoubted value in regards to her current situation.

"Your Grace?" Eylara reached to touch Lahallia's shoulder as she stood there, her hand on her thighs, breathing as though at the end of a sprint.

Orphael reached over, catching Eylara's wrist, shaking his head, mouthing 'Seer'.

Eylara jerked her wrist free, her lips pursed unattractively, but she did not attempt to repeat the gesture.

Lahallia straightened, her lungs tight in her chest as though she was sickening for something. "We should hurry. There's something down there." Obviously, but she had to say something so they would know she was all right.

Yes, Orphael nodded as he strode past her. There _was_ something down here. He did not like the feel of the place, as though a thousand little spider webs draped themselves across his skin as he strode forward, trying to pull him back or otherwise affect his ability to move.

But the lack of Order dust as they moved forward certainly lifted spirits. Breathing for the Mazken became easier, once out of the dust, but only marginally.

Lahallia allowed the Mazken to move around her, a protective barrier hedged at the fore by Hungers, sniffing and snuffling about for anything edible.

Including, as she quickly discovered grummite carcasses. Now the Order dust no longer coated everything, the Hungers squiggled and writhed in their usual fashion.

The halls of Xeddefen gave the invading party due warning as to when the Knights came. For a few moments before they appeared, the Mazken and Lahallia could hear crystalline boots pounding against solid stone. The Knights cared little for stealth.

Even if no one in the group felt the ill effects of the pervasion of Order in the ruins, no one would have failed to notice the Knights seemed much stronger here in their own lair than ever before. The ruins of Xeddefen sprawled deep underground, but lacked the usual murky, wet smell associated with old ruins.

Earth and water were already claiming Xeddefen from below, giving the place an air of sinking into the ground. If only the Order obelisk powering the Spire—which had to be here somewhere, Lahallia thought fiercely—were already underground, earth-encased. Then how would the Knights be able to spawn and respawn without being impossibly stuck?

The Knights, without a skill for an ambush came barreling out of a side corridor, managing to kill one of the Mazken. Lahallia's heart wobbled uncomfortably at the relief surging through her that said Mazken was not Orphael.

Malice plunged into a Knight with more strength than usually went into a thrust. Now was not the time to think about that Mazken. Nor to wonder if he was getting to her…or had already got to her. Perhaps this was why Lahallia's ferocity redoubled, breaking the bounds of Attendant-style split-second dismantling of a situation and adapting of tactics to said situation.

The tactics employed right now were very simple, painfully simple: kill anything silver with all the force irritation could lend to her cause. There were worse ways to work out crisis of feeling than battling respawning Knights invading her half of Sheogorath's realm

--SI--

Lahallia began to fear the Order Knights might overwhelm the party, as the search for the obelisk wore on. Xeddefen seemed to have a will of its own, a will bent—perhaps by Order itself—on stopping intruders from reaching its core. Not until Lahallia began having her Mazken leave magelights in the rooms they traversed, one apiece, turn about until they found the right way did Xeddefen seem unable to cope with such a path-finding skill.

The Mazken, however, noticed it even if Lahallia did not. A slow, leeching drain of strength and magicka, though they struggled to hide it. It was subtle, hardly noticeable at the mouth of Xeddefen, but all remained convinced they were getting closer to the obelisk at the ruin's core.

Though none of them, or even Lahallia, expected the draining influence apparently possessed by this obelisk...was that what was happening above? Lahallia's mind began to chew oat the problem. Did the spire, like the obelisk below, drain things out of the Isles? Was that why the dweomers were simply _gone_ instead of _disrupted_? That would explain the deadened quality of air, water and earth in the Fringe. What if the spire was simply _sucking it all away_? Or sucking out the inherent magicka of the Isles, causing the collapse into Order, because _something_ had to fill the gaps?

It made the invasion suddenly more terrifying than before, and Lahallia prayed no one else would reach this conclusion.

Orphael gripped his sword more tightly, ignoring the increase of tingling in his fingers—a tingle which, like the drain, got worse, and sometimes less so.

He had the horrible feeling by the time they reached the Obelisk he might not be able to hold a sword at all. And then what good would he be to _her_? He quashed the thought—it belonged to a ninny. An over-sentimental, mooning ninny. Which he was not.


	45. Chapter 45

Chapter Forty-Five: Battling Order

--SI--

Ever deeper into the complex of Xeddedfen, Lahallia and the Mazken continued on. The deeper they went the more a shadow of unease grew—an unease Lahallia suspected had something to do with the Order spite above, and the obelisk within the complex.

A wall suddenly slid open, causing several of the Mazken to jump, and Lahallia to pull a ball of lightning to her hands, ready to launch it at the first thing to move. The Hungers leapt forward, scenting healthy, living flesh and blood. After so many Order Knights, the Hungers' evil mood would only get worse.

Apparently there was nothing to an Order Knight to satiate a Hunger.

"Wait!" Lahallia let the spell shrink to something she could managed one handed as Sheldon, the 'mayor' of Passwall came stumbling out, seemingly unaware of his peril. He fell backwards as the Hungers, reined in by their summoners, stopped mid-spring, dropping out of the air like limp rags before skulking back to wait, their hollow eyes fixed upon Shelden, their postures radiating a tenseness as though still hoping the order to spring and permission to devour might come.

Lahallia might have told Shelden how very lucky he was, but decided not to. He did not need to know—and as it did not look as though he served the Order forces, she could only suppose he was here hiding. A wide plan, if it were not for the fact Order based their forces here.

Sheldren regained his feet, rightfully unnerved by the springing Hungers, as well he might be. His clothes bore signs of having lived rough for some time, filthy and dirt-stained. Beyond him in the earthen hollow protected by the false wall, a small fire burned—though how the smoke vented, Lahallia could not guess.

Shelden's joy at finding someone to rescue him remained unmingled with his usual haughty air. "It's... it's you!" Shelden's eyes bulged at Lahallia in her Mazken-styled armor, possibly because he knew it for what tic was, and knew _her_ for what she was when she first arrived.

Things had progressed quite a bit since that first day in the Fringe, Lahallia mused with satisfaction.

"I remember you. What are you doing down here? How did you get past the Knights? Why…" he looked at the grim-faced, disapproving Mazken flanking Lahallia. They openly frowned at him—except Orphael, who watched with amusement. Shelden liked being the mayor of Passwall, rarely missing a chance to remind people of his position, even though his position was self-appointed. It would be interesting to see how the proud little Redguard reacted to an Altmer duchess, right here, in the ruined Fringe.

"_You_ may address the Duchess as 'Your Grace'," Eylara declared dryly, her eyes narrowed at this breach of propriety. "We may be in crisis, but we must not forget our manners."

It did not occur to Lahallia to correct this. Eylara was quite correct in the assertion the Isles were in crisis—though most people did not realize the full extent of this crisis yet.

Shelden goggled so comically that, if the situation were any less dire, most of the Mazken would have laughed to see it.

"We fought our way in, of course. What happened here?" She wanted specifics, not just her own surmises, or those of the Mazken, sensible as those surmises were.

The Mazken, for their part, let Lahallia take the initiative and do her own inquiring, glad for a moment in which to stop and breathe. The Order dust no longer clogging their lungs brought some relief, but all, by now, could feel the nondescript pulsing thrum of energy, so subtle it was noticeable only as a vibration in their teeth.

This, Orphael guessed, was the reason he Hungers moved with more agitation than usual. He could feel a strange pull, as though something—he thought he could guess what—was trying to draw the things that made him Mazken right out of him. Fortunately, it took only a little will to keep himself himself, and not let any of his Isles-defined essence seep away, like dye which has failed to set washed out by water.

"Do you feel that?" Eylara asked, appealing to Orphael from lack og other options.

"The drain? I feel it."

"Can she?" Eylara nodded to Lahallia, keeping her voice very low.

"I can't tell. Maybe—but if she does, she's not letting it stop her," Orphael could not conceal pride in this. Not stop her indeed.

Lahallia _could_ feel her powers trying to leech away, as if a tiny hand caught the edge of them, like a child tugging on her skirts. Only will kept her powers where they belonged, but not as much will as the Mazken had to exert. The spire or obelisk seemed to drain the essence of the Isles, but would try to drain anything not of Order, it seemed. She would have to keep an eye on her Mazken for signs of fading.

The grayish bodies of the dead Aureals came back to mind. Was that the reason for the gray pallor? That they lost too much of the vital force binding them to the Realm of Madness?

Shelden's face seemed to age about ten years, his eyes haunted. The murmurs of the Mazken meant nothing in the light of the answer to the Duchess' question. "When they attacked, I ran from Passwall. They didn't say a word, they just started killing! The screams! By the staff, you can't imagine the screams!" He shook himself, continuing doggedly, anger kindling at the next turn of events. "Felas Sarandas and I slipped down here thinking we'd be safe. But, _no_! We landed right in the middle of them!"

Eylara and Lahallia exchanged looks. Orphael, when Lahallia glanced at him, shrugged. Clearly Shelden had no perception of magical dweomers, drains, or similar forces. An absolute mundane. It was not his fault, but still.

"And then," Shelden continued indignantly, "Felas ran off with them and left me to die! _Me_! That _ingrate_! Disloyal cur! Imagine, leaving me here all alone!"

On any other day, the Mazken would have felt—and showed—a collective benign amusement, as though watching a child rail at a friend's 'betrayal', such as stealing the last cookie from a cookie jar or something equally petty. Mortal affairs tended to be.

Just now however, their sense of humor remained notably depleted. As such, Sheldon found no sympathy, only controlled irritation at the lack of useful information in his tirade. Even Orphael had hoped Shelden might know _something_ to help plan the inevitable attack on the obelisk.

Lahallia looked over her troops. For a moment she considered sending Orphael with Sheldon—she could not in good conscience just leave the man there, whatever form of uselessness he represented.

Orphael caught something of her thoughts, when she gave him a considering look. He gave her one back, indicating plainly, Duchess or not, he would not stand for such a display of favoritism—if indeed he could call it that. With a glitter of eyes, and the last remaining shred of humor left to him, he motioned discreetly to Eylara.

"Have you any useful combat skills?" Lahallia asked, determined to be fair. Or rather, to give the impression of fairness—there was nothing fair in the decision she had already made. She also abandoned the idea of sending Orphael off. Better to have him than not, and she had not _seriously_ considered it as an option. She felt better having him around on a mission like this, to bolster her courage if it waned, than anything else.

Shelden shifted uncomfortably under the stern glares coming from all directions. "I'll do what I can to help. I... I like to hurt things. Maybe I can hurt these damned knights," he shrugged, sounding hopeful.

"Eylara. Pick two of your men and have him escort Mayor Shelden back to our forces at the Gates." Lahallia turned to go. "Don't try and fight your way back to us—that would be ridiculous. The five of us remaining can handle the Knights."

Orphael knew Lahallia well enough to see she did not like the idea of losing even one of her troops let alone two, but it was better to get Shelden out of the way. He would only get himself, and perhaps others, killed.

Lahallia barely finished speaking before Eylara barked an order to a pair of her Mazken, who immediately nodded, their expressions indicating clearly a lack of relish at the prospect of babysitting this wayward human, when the Duchess and others meant to bring the fight to Order's doorstep.

Shelden liked the prospect even less, if it were possible to do so. His attempt to put up a fuss resulted in a crack to the head from one of the Mazken, who immediately slung the unconscious Redguard across his shoulders and made for the exit, hoping the magelights lighting the upper level would still be in effect.

Now the need for two to go became painfully apparent. One Mazken alone could not wrangle the mortal, _and_ wield a sword.

Orphael repressed a smirk. Bad luck for the Redguard and the Mazken looking after him. Doubtless Shelden would find at least one Mazken very annoyed with him, by the time he reached the Gates. Probably two.

The Hungers skulked and crawled as the party, now minus two, moved forward. "Are you sure we number enough, Your Grace?" Eylara asked, glancing nervously at Lahallia, half expecting a rebuke for questioning the Duchess' directive. It had to be asked. Four against Order did not make for conditions of victory, no matter what plane you came from.

Lahallia, meanwhile absorbed in trying to sense the strongest point of drain and follow it, nodded slowly. She was not sure she succeeded, but she tried to look as though she knew what she was doing. "Haven't you noticed? The Knights come in groups of four. Always four. I think whatever is going on here allows them to respawn more quickly than they would elsewhere." And if Order lived up to its name, and had more troops available, it would sent more and more until it finally overwhelmed the invaders.

So this was not the massing of the army, as Eylara feared.

Which raised the question of _why_ the Fringe was dead and ruined, while the area around the Spires in the Isles proper were not.

_But they were_, Lahallia realized with a jolt to the stomach. She admitted it to herself, though she did not know what it meant at the time. The Spires affected a very small area around themselves, removing all Vision triggers within a certain radius of the Spires themselves. Doubtless by now, with Order concerted, they could begin draining the Isles proper. And more than that, Lahallia would bet gold.

"We need to move. Now," Lahallia's voice came like the drop in temperature before a rainstorm, ominous and threatening.

If Order made the crossing, it would surely be able to reach the Spires within the Isles. And use those Spires to _drain_ the Isles of everything which made them unique. The sneaking feeling the drained power could be converted, and thus turned to Order's own purpose did not go unnoticed, however much else currently filled Lahallia's mind.

And the laws of magicka, as well as with other things, demanded energy go _somewhere_. It did not simply go away. It might dissipate into the air, as with a failed spell, but a skilled mage could call the residual energies back. Most simply did not bother, or did not _know_. Again, she thanked the Apocrypha for one thing, if not for others.

"We're getting closer," Orphael noted after a few silent moments. His hand buzzed up the wrist, nearly to his elbow, growing stronger all the time.

"This last fight will be most difficult, for the Knights will not have to run far to find us when they respawn. Focus as much as you can on the Order Priest attending the Obelisk—there will be at least one. He keeps the channels along which they respawn open—but remember, we need at least three Knights' hearts to shut down the Obelisk." Not difficult if they could finish off the Knights before the Knights finished them.

A steeply sloping staircase met them not far along the newest passage. White light, clear but flickering with silver shadows, poured out of the stairwell, and a dry dusty smell unlike that of the Apocrypha permeated the air.

Everyone could feel the hum of the obelisk, or the spire above.

Lahallia crouched, slipping as stealthily as she could without resorting to a spell to do so, down the stairwell. The Knights stood silent and still around the Obelisk, as though awaiting orders. Unlike crystalline structures within the Isles, this one was much larger, the topmost tip touching a silvery crystalline plate mounted to the ceiling. The Obelisk pulsed with the clear light, but dark cords ran away from the Obelisk like roots, twisting up the walls to vanish out of sight.

Doubtless this had something to do with the Spire up top. It remained her vaguely of some researchers with shock spells and lightning rods.

Orphael closed his eyes for a moment, pursing his lips. His hand no longer tingled. It _burned_, as though memory and reality slowly melted together. Was it the Obelisk? He could not think of why it should be…except that his memory, like all Mazken's was never perfect, never blessed with absolute recall of the thousands of years he'd walked the Isles.

It made him uneasy, the discomfort without apparent cause.

"Best if we go in hard," Lahallia's voice pierced Orphael's haze of preoccupation.

Attempts to force himself to hang on her words and not acknowledge the discomfiture of his hand—which became fiery pins and needles as he tightened his grip on his sword—failed. Sudden stabbing commiseration with Lahallia and her Visions slammed against his conscience.

She could no more stop them than he could ignore the pain.

Cool restoration spread through his hand. Lahallia evidently had given the word, for Eylara and her men had crept forward. It was Lahallia spelling his hand. "Later." She declared quietly, evidencing her desire for an explanation of what was wrong. He could not tell if the concern as purely professional, or tinged with personal interest. He was inclined to believe the latter, but it did not matter now. Gripping his sword with less discomfiture, he followed the last of Eylara's Mazken, Lahallia following him, a spell crackling in one hand.

The Hungers went in first, hissing, spitting and twisting in their enthusiasm at having possible prey. Everyone knew the Hungers would only be disappointed at the fare, and every agreed a disappointed Hunger was worse than any other sort.

Eylara leapt into the room, seeking to run the Priest of Order through as expediently as possible, thus ending the threat of him re-summoning his confounded crystalline cronies. He turned abruptly, sidestepping the blow, as though he could feel her presence, giving him near prescience.

Madness in this place of Order would stood out.

Eylara turned in time to parry a blow from one of the Knights, as the rest of the Mazken, and Lahallia, poured into the room. The blow shook her to her shoulder, but the Knight, fending off her sword with his, reached forward fearlessly.

His hand closed around Eylara's throat, despite her attempt to backpedal.

_Malice_ came crashing down on his outstretched arm, the blade digging into the crystalline armor, leaving a faint tinge of blackness in the crystal, as though it tried to leech the madness ore, but could not do so effectively.

The Knight released Eylara, who although startled was not hurt. She took advantage of the Knight turning towards Lahallia to catch his sword with an underhanded parry, forcing him to leave his chest unguarded.

Lahallia, with no intention of leaving Eylara to battle one-on-one, not when she could see her theory about the Knights being stronger here than anywhere else confirmed, rammed _Malice_ into the Knight's chest. The blade bit deep, dark gray color leeching into the Knight like ink dropped into water. Lahallia continued gripping her sword, prepared to wrench it free.

The spell, given verbally, made her lips tingle and chap, and sent static running through her hair. The shock spell leapt through the sword, all the more potent for the traditional incantation rather than the silence necessary for surprise.

Blame it on the cords, for reminding her about that sect of mages and their shock spell research.

For a horrible moment she thought the Knight might prove inert against lightning, but she took a deep breath, aware of the pressure of Order's dweomers like groping hands. she grit her teeth, pouring more power into the spell.

With difficulty considering how Order stifled her ability to cast, Eylara barked a word Lahallia could not understand, but the crackle of lightning and the swell of Daedric magicka, Demented magicka, rose like swamp water.

Under the force of two such spells, the Knight turned black, crumbling to the ground.

But the heart was destroyed as well. Lahallia swore, not having time to wipe sweat from her brow, not thinking to ask what the Mazken-specific spell Eylara used actually was.

Had she asked, Eylara would have told her the spell had not worked. Something about Order stifled the draw of Madness-rooted powers. She, unready of this development, could not adapt fast enough before Lahallia's spell finished its work.

Orphael's hand tingled worse the longer he remained in close proximity to the Obelisk, making his blows weaker than they ought to be. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Eylara and Lahallia start towards another Knight, Lahallia's barked incantations rising above the noise of the battle. Apparently the pull of Order was not enough squelch her ability to be magically devastating.

_Bam_. The blow sent his sword spinning out of his hand. Orphael backed up, aware of the corner into which he was backing. The blow left an already compromised arm nearly useless from pain as well as the previous condition. Clutching his injured hand close to his body, he raised his off hand, eyes glittering…

…but the power by which all Mazken cast spells, drawn from the Isles themselves, did not come quickly enough. Which meant he was dependant on that magicka which infused himself, the expendable kind, rather than those additional resources which the Isles provided to its custodians.

His stomach dropped towards his boots, but did so quickly. With calculating eyes fixed on the Knight, he continued backing up, until his heel found the wall. The Knight, with no trace of humor raised its sword and thrust…

…straight into the wall. Order, Orphael smirked, pleased his desperate dart to one side had worked, lacked imagination. Taking advantage of the Knight attempting to free its sword before smacking the equally unarmed Mazken a blow grabbed hold of the crystalline plates, forcing every ounce of strength he could gather for the spell.

Lahallia would have stuck with any of the three traditional variants: frost, flame, or shock. Particularly if her ability to draw on familiar resources was ever compromised.

Mazken had a unique option, and Orphael meant to use what he was familiar with, even if it took more effort than usual. Slime-like algae, smelling as foul as it looked exploded over the Knight as though a fecund sack was abruptly popped over the Knight. The Knight's now vile form thrashed and flailed as though the algae were working itself into every crack and chink of armor—which it was.

Hungers howled and hissed their displeasure at yet again finding nothing tasty beneath the crystalline armor, and took this displeasure out on anything _not their masters_. With the four H?HHungers present swarming upon one Knight, the Knight was easily outclassed, leaving the remaining the Knights to deal with the Mazken and Lahallia.

Lahallia felt the drain of the Order Obelisk beginning to leech at her powers. But she had the three hearts, and now hovered close to the Obelisk, feeding them in as hurriedly as she could, even as Eylara kept the Priest of Order at bay, and the other Mazken—all showing signs of fatigue, struggle, and _drain_—heroically battled the still-respawning Knights as they re-emerged from the Obelisk.

Lahallia heard Eylara's shriek of pain as the third heart soaked into the Obelisk.

Orphael turned from the Knight he and Lyvi were cornering to see Eylara hit the ground, her Knight's sword smeared in dark Mazken blood. His eyes scanned for Lahallia, standing near Kerin. she step back, triumph on her face. Lahallia's breath caught, as she felt a new pull. For a moment all the Mazken stood as though struck stone-still, the ambiance of Order smothering them.

One of the Knights clattered to the ground, having just taken a deadly blow from one of the Mazken, but the other two did not stop. Lyvi took a glancing blow, as Orphael sluggishly moved to respond, his magicka stifled by the sudden overwhelming sense of _Order_ beating against him.

Lahallia stepped back again moving _Malice_ into position to strike, but before she could complete the action everything moved to a state of neutrality, neither Order, nor Madness. It made her lightheaded, but no sooner had she registered _this _then the Obelisk exploded violently. Lahallia flew back, thrown by the pulse of power which blasted all from their feet. The two remaining Knights found themselves swarmed upon by Hungers, with displeasure by no means abated.

Lahallia, however, as close to the exploding Obelisk as she was found herself thrown across the room. She hit the opposing wall before hitting the ground in a shower of crystal shards and chips.

Kerin, who was closest to her, landed several feet ahead of her stunned but not injured. He groaned, slowly pushing himself to his knees.

Lahallia did not move.


	46. Chapter 46

Chapter Forty-Six: The Fingers of Order

--SI--

Lahallia awoke to restorative magicka seeping cool through her forehead, displacing darkness. The ground beneath her rumbled, but for a moment she did to think it strange.

Then reason caught up with her, and with it a concerted effort to open her eyes. "Duchess? Your Grace?" Eylara's voice, strained and terse, came to her ears as though across a great chasm.

The ground shook more violently beneath her, rattling her teeth.

"Lahallia?" Orphael's voice followed, his fingers moving along her neck as though checking for breaks. "So stubborn…is this the time?" But there was no annoyance, only concern as strong hands seized her with the intent of putting her across equally strong shoulders.

Lahallia found it in herself to protest.

Her head ached, her whole _body_ ached, but the sense of impending danger did not relinquish her. "What happened…?" The words came out thickly as Lahallia forced her eyes open. The Hungers were gone, but a fine, steady rain of dust trickled from the dark recesses of the ceiling. Lahallia forced herself to sit up, her head spinning like a top.

With the apparent instability of the ruin, she could not have been unconscious long. Restorative spells channeled like cold water dumped over her, forcing her world to clear and cease to spin.

"Lahallia, the building's collapsing…" With a grunt, Lahallia grabbed Orphael's shoulder, using him to lever herself to her feet. The spinning in her head slowed as she got her footing. Immediate peril could serve as a wonderful motivator.

"What are you waiting for? Get going!" Lahallia pointed, and would have ushered the others out before herself had Orphael not grabbed her by the arm, half-dragging her up the stairs.

Orphael did not think of rolling his eyes at her altruism, just in getting her from point A to point B. Mazken that he was, able to come back from the Wellspring as he could, being crushed to death by who knew how much rock was not a form of death about which he was curious.

And the Duchess of Dementia herself—irreplaceable, and unable to come back from the Waters of Oblivion like a Mazken—must never go _last_ when escaping a collapsing building. Not while she had only Mazken guards to worry about.

"How many did we lose?" Lahallia demanded as she hurried along, not bothering to pull free of Orphael before she had to. He helped her set a pace, and seemed to have a fair idea where he was going.

And blast whatever architect wanted all these stairs.

None, but apparently she did not consider the actual situation. She should save her breath. "Check later!" He reached out, seeing a chunk of the ceiling fall before Lahallia did. He yanked her back, clear of the hazard, before shoving her forward again. At least it was just falling masonry, not falling masonry plus Order Knights.

Lahallia did not protest the rough treatment, knowing full well if _she_ were squashed to jelly, there was no coming back.

Orphael glanced over his should. The burst of energy from the Obelisk caused the building's integrity to give out, the Spire collapsing down into the ruins of Xeddefen, ruining them still further.

Lahallia, to everyone's relief, suffered no extreme damage, as evidenced. She pulled free of him the better to contend with the falling masonry. Not quite as light-footed as a Khajiit but she held her own.

No one, by now, had breath to spare for anything but running. The passages twisted, collapsed, and swung back around on themselves. Lahallia would have quickly found herself crushed or imprisoned in the wreckage were it not for the innate sense all Mazken had of which way _home_ lay. Or, this was how she perceived it, as he mind tried to race.

Lahallia's sense of calm confidence and the desire to get this done, right and now vanished with a yelp. The collapsing building proved too much of a strain on decorum and duchess-like courage. Thankfully, no one heard the yelp, nor did she hear the muffled flinches, grunts and curses as the ceiling continued raining down. The smell of dust and dirt mingled with Order as they careened towards the entrance.

Three Mazken and Lahallia poured out into the still quiet of the crystallized court of Xeddefen, to find the Fringe still dead and crystalline. All could, however, feel the drifting currents of air, carrying the inherent magical signatures of Dementia and Mania. The lights in the sky beyond the Gates showed brighter, as though Order's leeching of all color and normalcy was broken.

Lahallia looked back to find the Spire vanished into the collapsed ruin, which still seemed to be settling, as the ground under her feet continued to rumble. Was the spire a magnifying artifact? Thank goodness there only seemed to be the one. Unless, she corrected herself darkly, there were others hidden deep in the Isles, poised to begin draining them in earnest as soon as possible.

Orphael wiped his forehead on his wrist, smearing dust and grime on his skin rather than brushing it off. The fine grit made his skin crawl, but more than that, the Order dust's effects began to creep up on him again. If it was not one contaminant it was another.

Still, most of the party lived—Lahallia in particular—and no one should suffer any permanent damage. That was something, and it put valuable Mazken back at Pinnacle Rock, where they could be speedily redeployed.

All the Mazken were filthy, Lahallia could see she looked little better—worse, for her pale skin showed off every dark particle of dirt picked up in Xeddefen, and now flakes of Order as well. Her heart pounded for several minutes as the realization of what she had successfully sprinted out of settled on her.

This time no thoughts of the Apocrypha, or the quiet life in the ultimate library came to her, only a stony, cold-burning fury at the danger in which she and her Mazken found themselves. And Order was to blame.

Thadon had better hope his new allies killed her before long, or she would select _him_ as the target for her unmerciful intentions. She would not be the only Duchess who made him crawl and writhe—though in an extremely different context than Syl. The difference made her smile grimly, despite the situation. Thadon might not have helped, yet, in this attack on Madness, but blaming him was motivating and convenient. Lahallia did not care about 'fair'.

"Is everyone all right?" Eylara demanded, recovering her breath but only marginally. To see the Duchess standing there, so calm, so sure with that little smile playing about her lips as she stared at the ruined Xeddefen made her skin crawl. She would not like to find herself on the other end of that look, even though there was nothing inherently menacing about it.

But that was Dementia, sneaking, creepy, laying waste to bright, cheerful things before anyone realized it was there. Like quicksand, slowly dragging its victims under, and never letting them go. Eylara forced herself to stand erect. It did not do to stoop and huddle, when the Duchess was present. People would think ill of her for choosing substandard Mazken for dangerous venture. A dangerous _successful _venture. Syl could never have pulled it off.

Orphael noticed Lahallia expression as well. He, well able to compare it to her during her pre-Duchess days, found it the height of improvement. Yes, she'd had grit—pardon the pun—then, but now she was a wholly different creature. The shell grown to protect herself from Vision, and the leeching influences of the Apocrypha were stripped away to reveal a widely unsuspected vibrancy underneath.

He wanted her. Doubly so, because it was something no Mazken had any business thinking, and Orphael enjoyed maintaining a certain amount of contrariness.

Replies of 'yes fine' came from the group, causing Orphael to speak up out of habit.

Lahallia's reverie remained unbroken by her own affirmation of wellness. She took great comfort in that this Spire could no longer affect the Isles. Unless, even collapsed, it could suck the Madness out through the dirt. She hoped not.

Lahallia hunched forward, her head still aching, more now with relief than before, the momentary dispassionate action subsiding to leave her in a state she could call normalcy. The feel of excessive Order permeating the area was almost gone. Almost, for it still lurked like noxious fumes, and the Order flakes continued to fall. "Are you all fit to travel?" she asked, briskly businesslike despite feeling shaken.

"Yes," Eylara nodded, not pointing out that the only hold-up here was Lahallia herself. It was unwise to point things like out to a duke or duchess. They tended to resent it, and such resentment rarely boded any good for a Mazken. Better than Syl or not. Lahallia was still the Duchess of Dementia, and according to Eylara's experience, must therefore be a little temperamental.

"Good, we should rejoin the others." With this Lahallia started off at a fair clip, acutely aware how she had begun to sweat, which made the grime trickle about in rivulets. Unless she could find a place to wash soon, she would look altogether ghastly.

Would Sheogorath mind the dirt? For he would certainly want her to report in as quickly as may be. Yes, he probably _would_. Subtly, the knowledge she could not _stretch _or _shrink_ distance—as had happened once or twice within the Isles proper—settled. There was nothing here to influence, whether the influence came from the Mazken, herself, or Sheogorath. The Fringe was virtually detached from the rest of the Isles, probably right up to the Gates.

--SI--

Udico's detachment gave her a wide berth as she waited. She hated waiting, particularly once the Spire collapsed. It was only threat of 'what ifs' which kept her at her post. Udico was a good soldier, and able to master herself against the impulse to abandon her post and go looking for the Duchess and that unreliable helps he had with her—though fairly, Eylara was anything but unreliable.

The agitated, irritated Grakendo was liable to snap at people when in this state. _How_ could she have let a single female lieutenant and a cabal of men take the Duchess into such a place? Far from the most biased of her kind, Udico could not help feeling she ought to have left _Orphael_ here to manage his peers while _she_ took his spot on the infiltrating team.

That two of the infiltrators came prematurely back, with their Duchess' permission to do so, and an overly talkative, excessively annoying human in tow did nothing for her temper.

It all boiled down to two less pairs of hands aiding the Duchess in an incredibly hostile place. Udico never though herself hard to please, but right now she wished the Duchess was a little less…independent. An excellent leader, but stuck in the middle of all things dangerous…

And then the team came trotting up the stairs. The Mazken with Udico had, as per her instructions, fallen back up the stairs leading to the Gatekeeper Terrace and Gates—the easiest way for anyone or anything to get to them, and the most defensible way. It also afforded a fantastic view of the outlying grounds.

Covered head to toe in Order Dust and regular dirt, Lahallia and her entourage blended in surprisingly well with the countryside.

"Your Grace!" Relief suffused Udico's tones as the sweaty, dirty team approached. She hurried down to meet them.

Lahallia began giving orders before Udico's sentence was finished. Now was not the time to worry about shows of deference. This was war. "Udico, you'll keep the rest of the Mazken here. I'll take Orphael and return to New Sheoth immediately. Lord Sheogorath will want news of the victory here," if they could _call_ it a victory, "as soon as possible. I wish you to maintain a garrison here at the Gates. As soon as possible," Lahallia continued as she gained the summit of the stairs and began crossing the paved court in the shadow of the Gates, "I will send reinforcements after whatever fashion your compatriots think best."

She paused for breath, aware all the Mazken were struggling to breathe—though the ones who came with her less so.

"Yes, Your Grace," Udico answered, still processing Lahallia's stream of verbalized consciousness. She continued doing so for another moment or two, during which Lahallia did not speak. "Will there be anything else, Your Grace?"

"If the Madness drain returns, and you cannot hold the way, retreat and wreck the Gates, if you can." It was the best way to keep Order out—make the crossing impossible, or at least, incredibly difficult.

Yes, it would not stop Order, only slow them down, but Lahallia knew nothing else she could do right now, other than play for time, and keep her lack of bright ideas quiet. "Order _must not _pass them." An idea slammed into Lahallia with all the force of a rampaging Daedroth. "Haskill."

Orphael winced, then wondered how Haskill's back clothes would react to the Order dust. Badly, he hoped.

Lahallia called the spell, but no swirl of magicka heralded the appearance of the stout functionary, nor did he respond when Lahallia called him again. Nothing. Lahallia grimaced at the sky. Blasted Order…the Fringe really was cut off.

"Fall back to Pinnacle Rock if you're forced back through the Gates," Lahallia finished. It would be ridiculous to have them do anything else. The people at Pinnacle Rock knew their business, and she would have to force herself not to worry overmuch bout the garrison here.

She had bigger problems, or would once Sheogorath got the report of events out here, in what was now behind enemy lines.

--SI--

Haskill would not have responded to the summons, even if he could. In the dark throne room, devoid of any guard detachment, of any living creature but Haskill himself, sat Sheogorath. But not Sheogorath. Haskill's stomach relayed to him an unusual sense of cold dread as he watched his liege sitting straight and still, unmoving, impassive.

Whether the cold in his stomach represented a fear he could not name, a fear repeated at the end of every era, or a fear of what the Duchess—for Duchess she must now be called—might do, or how she might disrupt the flow of events, or fear of his duties at the end of it all, Haskill did not know. He gave little thought to _feelings_.

He was not in the Isles to _feel_, but to carry out certain duties, just as he had in eras past. He had no reason to believe the mortal Duchess would end up altering those duties—but things were happening _differently_ from before. Haskill could almost taste the differences between the madcap attempts of a fractured mine and the more methodical attempts of a mortal Duchess—an Attendant steeped in the orderliness which suffused the Apocrypha—to carry out mission by mission, with little information past an objective.

She worked well despite not having much information to go on.

Haskill glanced back at Sheogorath. The days and nights were already nearly even as far as time went, never varying forms of darkness and light. The citizenry noticed it, when they noticed anything at all, blissfully unaware of the impending doom.

These moments of strangeness which seized Sheogorath, the cause of which Haskill knew very well, were growing more and more frequent. Something would have to give soon, and Sheogorath's _real _plan would begin. Unless the Duchess failed the test—Haskill could perceive nothing from the decimated Fringe.

Order must be amassing its forces, expectantly awaiting its captain.

Keeping the Mazken and Aureals in the dark about it was beginning to take its toll on the chamberlain. At least the most inquisitive of these were kept very busy. Too busy to spare extraneous thought about little details.

"Haskill."

"Yes, my lord?" Haskill bowed, no longer seeing the shape of the old man in garishly bright clothing, but a dark shape, too big to be allowed but somehow fitting into the room, recognizable only as a glitter of gold eyes, more an impression in the mind of the beholder than actual eyes.

"I want a new Gatekeeper."

"Yes, my lord, I'll see to it." Was it happening faster this time? Haskill could not judge, time being such a finicky thing—usually—within the Isles.

Suddenly everything was right in the world. The lights came up, the dark bulk of perceived presence vanished. "A visit to dear Relmyna will be just the thing for them! She'll be mad about them! Simply furious! I wonder if they'll survive."

Haskill breathed a sigh of relief as the innate knowledge of Mazken and Aureals as to when they were needed—or wanted—caused them to troop into the throne room obediently, to stand guard as though nothing had happened. As far as they were concerned, nothing had. It was more merciful that way.

"And cake! I want cake!" Sheogorath pounded his fists enthusiastically on the arms of his throne.

The more things changed, Haskill shook his head. And well they might, if the Duchess and her escort were not killed on sight by Relmyna, Lahallia for killing the Gatekeeper, Orphael for escaping. Or rather, being released.

--SI--

The countryside flashed past as Orphael guided the Hunger-drawn chariot back towards New Sheoth. The air of Dementia hung cold and dismal, raising gooseflesh on the Mazken and the Altmer alike. "Do you feel better?" She wished she did not have to shout, but it was not as though anyone was present to listen.

"Yes," Orphael knew very well she was worried about his arm—which had by now stopped acting up, and was again just an arm. As evidenced by the skill with which he handled the Hungers.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" Lahallia asked, glancing at his profile, taking note of the way his slanting eyes narrowed. Evidently this was not a subject he wanted to discuss.

"What if I say no?" Petulant, perhaps, but then again he did not wish to worry her, or give her a reason to put him on the sidelines. She had considered it once already, and he did not wish it to go beyond consideration.

"You _can_ say no," Lahallia agreed, but she smiled, knowing how to combat this easily enough, "but if I thought you were not able to fight with that hand…I might want to leave you somewhere safe." She did not need to look at Orphael to see the scowl on his face. How often could she so deftly handle stubbornness and reticence? Not that often, if the source was Orphael.

'Safe' meant anywhere she was not, likely enough. What else could he expect from an Attendant? She had changed, certainly, but in some ways she remained as alien as ever. But he had to acknowledge the corner into which she had backed him. All without actually threatening. At least she was more reasonable _now_ than when they arrived in Passwall. "I am fine _now_."

"What was that with your arm?" Lahallia squinted as the wind changed, blowing into her eyes.

"It's an old injury."

"Shouldn't it have healed?" Lahallia's grip on the chariot began to dig edges into her palms. Orphael's driving got more cavalier as she pressed the issue. He certainly did not feel a need to spare the Hungers, and they pulled as though their lives depended on it.

Or as though they were promised delicious foods, to be eaten until satiation, once they got back to New Sheoth.

"It should have," Orphael's voice almost did not carry over the whip of wind, "but it hasn't. It was worst nearest the Spire."

Lahallia nodded, considering for a moment, then she let the topic go. "I was simply worried."

"You're freezing," not a question, but astute enough. _He_ was chilled, certainly. Mazken armor was never meant to deal with the elements and this particular team of Hungers was a handful.

Lahallia chuckled softly. "So are you." But she moved so as to stand very close to him. With a twitch of magicka, the air around them grew warm—a low-level precursor to a proper flame spell. "Better?" The warmth of the ambient air washed over her like a warm bath.

Orphael managed to reach his arm around her without letting the team run amok, dragging her to stand beside and a little in front of him, safely corralled by arms and reins. "Much."

Lahallia leaned back determined to enjoy the drive back to New Sheoth. Now, if she could just do something about the wind.


	47. Chapter 47

Chapter Forty-Seven: Relmyna Verenim

--SI--

Unusually, Haskill waited outside for Lahallia and Orphael, plainly indicating all was not well in New Sheoth. Both of them now fresh and clean, and with orders to Pinnacle Rock in the care of Nelrene already in transit, only the sight of Haskill away from his beloved master could have disturbed either of them.

"Chamberlain," Lahallia bowed her head uncomfortably. What was he here for?

Haskill waved a hand, the courtyard vanishing as a rug pulled from beneath feet, the trio suddenly standing in a small office, bearing a remarkable resemblance to the room in which Haskill originally interrogated Lahallia. "I must be brief. What do you know of Jyggalag?" Haskill did not sit down, and although he meant the question for Lahallia, he glanced at Orphael.

The name sent a sensation like cold water thrown over his head along Orphael's skin. He had no more answer for the question than Lahallia, apparently, but the name itself inspired a nameless fear. It added up, he decided, to big trouble. Very big trouble. Worse: as he knew the name of the current Dukes or Duchesses, remembered names or faces of his Mazken compatriots, he should remember 'Jyggalag'.

Lahallia frowned. The name rang a vague bell, but she could no place it, particularly with Orphael emanating unease, and Haskill's aberrations in behavior ruffling her sense of normalcy. "No…is he the one sending Order?" Why else would Haskill spring such a question on her?

"Very good. His appearance seems imminent." Well, maybe only part of the truth. If Sheogorath decided to tell the Altmer, he should have that option. Otherwise he, Haskill, would advise her later. After….

Haskill clamped down on the thought with little effort. It was extraneous, having nothing to do with Sheogorath's most recent order. "You must be ready. His hatred for this land, for what it represents, is _unimaginable_." Haskill would have liked to tell Lahallia what was going to happen, but his lord's will now actively prevented it. Haskill was subverting that will already, but the Altmer _had to know_ if she was to combat what would come.

Sheogorath simply could not comprehend that sort of foresight crazed as he was, always living in the now. The only leeway Haskill had to disobey was to act in the _spirit_ of Sheogorath's will, not necessarily the actual wording given.

Not that Sheogorath was in any condition, at the moment, to tell anyone anything, so _he_ took the initiative to inform the unlucky pair of their next task. It should, after all, be done as soon as possible, what with one thing and another. The Isles had enough to worry about without…without leaving things to chance, or providing soft targets.

Perhaps that would give Lahallia or her Mazken a hint, but he did not hope for this. They knew too little to put the pieces together. By the time they did…it would be too late. The plan might be changing the currents of the usual order of business, but it was impossible to see how things would turn out.

Lahallia exchanged a look with Orphael, to find him simply eyeing Haskill with veiled suspicion. "Who or what _is_ this Jyggalag?" Came Orphael's shrewd question. He could not say how he knew, but Orphael was certain Haskill knew more than he actually said. Orphael resented the willful omission or concealing of details when it might result in Lahallia getting killed. The Isles needed her, especially right now.

Haskill did not mind the Mazken's piercing gaze, but approved the dedication. He had dealt with this Mazken time and time again, without the creature knowing. One might say a certain amount of reliance on the creature's tenacity, curiosity, and sharp intellect existed.

Oh, the Altmer could function well enough without the Mazken's mental assistance, but why leave things to chance? "He is the general of Order's forces—their lord and leader. And with your victory in the Fringe," never mind it was actually Jyggalag who won there, succeeding in draining the Madness from most of the area, "he will redouble his efforts and attack the Gate next." They did not need to know of their success in destroying the Spire—why else would they be back already?—came too late. Nothing came out of the Fringe, no sense of what went on there, nothing.

But the loss of the Great Spire would help. Every little bit helped, Haskill dispassionately supposed.

"I posted a guard…" Lahallia began briskly.

"…at the gates to ensure no one and nothing could come through," Haskill finished. "Wise, perhaps, but they will not last long against the Greymarch. We need a new Gatekeeper."

Orphael turned ashen, his skin crawling, the sensation of remembered _pain_ pulsing through his veins. A new Gatekeeper meant a visit to the one who created the first…Relmyna Verenim. And that name, though Lahallia did not know it, was synonymous with pain, suffering, and cruelty.

Relmyna could be said to be the one person in all the Isles all Daedra—except Sheogorath—feared. Relmyna's cruelty was matched only by her temper, and there was no love lost between Altmer and Dunmer.

And Lahallia had killed the first Gatekeeper, or helped to do so.

He did not remember his own stay in Relmyna's home of Xaselm, but the idea of Lahallia left to an angry, injured Relmyna drove out any thought of self-preservation with a cold sense of dread no Mazken should feel. Even though Relmyna sat high in Lord Sheogorath's god graces, surely he would not permit her to extend any of her tender mercies Lahallia-ward. Not the least because Lahallia was _also_ a favored retainer of Lord Sheogorath. And a duchess outranked a mad vivisectionist any day, even in the Isles.

…shouldn't she? Falling back on the usual Mazken mantra for such concerns over a Duchess' safety, Relmyna would have to step over his cold, dead body to get near the Duchess. A little disappointing in the grand scheme of things, but what else could he do?

"Should not Lord Sheogorath be assigning this mission?" Lahallia asked shrewdly. He had, so far, given all her instructions, as well as the impression those missions were of supreme importance.

Haskill's mouth thinned imperceptibly, holding back the words which would answer this question and explain quite a few things as well. "Lord Sheogorath has many things he must oversee. In this case, I am assigning you, on his behalf, to go to Xaselm, find Relmyna, and implore of her to build a new Gatekeeper. You may safely invoke Lord Sheogorath's favor."

"She will not take kindly to the Duchess' presence." This for Haskill's benefit. Orphael did not sigh in relief, but would have liked to. Under usual circumstances, Relmyna would likely forget everything and go for Lahallia's eyes with her fingernails. His heart quavered with sympathy for her apprentice. Relmyna's wont to abuse her subordinates when she became angry was legendary. He could only imagine what extremes she might take in the throes of grief.

Relmyna was one to drag things out. She would also put aside any grudge if it would bring her Lord Sheogorath's favor, however marginal. This did not mean letting go of a grudge, merely postpone acting on it. He would make sure Lahallia had the necessary information about Relmyna to successfully deal with the Dunmer.

"In which case it is _your_ task to make sure they both stay alive," Haskill responded mercilessly. "Lord Sheogorath wants Relmyna in the Isles, and he wants the Duchess to continue in the capacity of Duchess. _You_, as the Duchess' escort, may consider yourself responsible for both ladies' safety and cooperation. I wish you both luck."

"Wait." Lahallia's voice carried so much authority Haskill stopped.

Orphael started at her tone, glancing down at Lahallia. The ability to halt Haskill in his tracks, surprised him.

"Tell me about Relmyna." The face of the Dunmer in Passwall her first day in the Fringe, the sense of corrupted magicka, swam through her memory. The prospect of meeting her again was not one Lahallia relished, especially seeing how Orphael was genuinely unnerved, when she had not seen him so before. Not even when injured and facing over-strong Knights of Order.

Haskill sighed. "She is a powerful sorceress. She believes she has found a 'sixth element', the element of Flesh. The Mages Guild expelled her for this belief, and for the..." he coughed gently, "_extreme_ nature of her experiments."

Orphael's lips thinned. "Tell her the rest of it, Chamberlain." When Haskill merely gave him a supercilious look, Orphael turned his attention to Lahallia. "She's not picky about who or what she conducts her experiments _on_."

Realization dawned on Lahallia's face. "We'll be careful then," she assured him, taking the warning to heart.

Orphael sighed—once again Lahallia missed the point, or so he thought. He was not worried about _himself_.

Haskill approved the growing bond between the Mazken and the Attendant. Perhaps there was hope to sever her ties yet, and before the last minute. Not that she could get out through the Fringe again. The Greymarch sealed all exits from the Isles, save the ones thought which Order seeped. "Our Lord took interest and brought her here, so she might continue her work, free of those provincial notions of decency and morality."

Lahallia's scowl deepened. "Is she in her residence?"

Haskill looked skyward. He remained, and had always been so, deep in Sheogorath's counsels, therefore could do more than most. _Someone_ had to manage the Isles when Sheogorath could not, or rather, took no interest. "Yes. Lord Sheogorath keeps himself acquainted with Sorceress Verenim's current whereabouts," and usually had no presence of mind to do it himself, until trouble occurred. "Her affections have caused him unnecessary annoyance in the past."

Lahallia nodded, marking the word 'affections', and connecting it with 'Sheogorath's favor'. "Do you know the way?" This to Orphael.

He nodded twice, mouth still pursed.

"Then we should go," gently, Lahallia took him by the arm, hurrying down the stairs.

Orphael said nothing, not relishing the prospect of visiting Relmyna. "You may wish to don your armor," he announced when they reached the bottom of the stairs. "She's likely to be petty."

"I'm not afraid of _her_." It was a lie, but Orphael had no way of knowing this. Nevertheless she took the hint, waving her hand, having placed a binding on her armor before her bath earlier. It appeared, settling over her robes, which shortened to knee-length. The effect was to make the otherwise revealing armor nearly fashionable and ladylike, or to make the robes practical and battle-worthy.

"You should be," Orphael shook his head, but brushed his knuckles along her back where the cloth of her robes showed.

Lahallia opened her mouth to say something, but shut it. There was no point arguing.

--SI--

Xaselm seemed to exude pain, despair and suffering, coloring the air of the place, much as the Gatekeeper did, except Lahallia perceived this as the source, rather than something reflected.

"Most of it is underground," Orphael dictated as Lahallia stepped out of the chariot. Orphael could not understand why the speedy forms of travel allowed to the Mazken—and the Ducal Seats—was not working properly, except that the Greymarch must have something to do with it. The sky over the Fringe, or that part which was visible, showed an uncomfortable flat gray.

The Ordered Fringe struck him as far preferable to the dungeon they were about to enter. He stepped down off the chariot and dismissed the Hungers. No one was fool enough to meddle with an obviously Mazken artifact, like this chariot, so in all likelihood it would sit there undisturbed until he and Lahallia emerged.

If…he cut that thought short. He did not think himself capable of cowardice, but had to admit, as he walked towards the gaping maw of Xaselm, if he had ever wanted to run from anything, it would be this. And Lahallia was too naive to know when discretion as the better part of survival.

He had the measure of her completely wrong. Lahallia, perhaps because she once Saw the inside of Xaselm—had an idea what to expect. She _perceived_ the unease of the Vision-Aureal, as well as the sadistic air hanging around Relmyna, both in person and in Vision. It did not take a genius to put two and two together.

She also remembered the deferential tones the Aureal used, and the way Relmyna responded to such servility, as well as the carefully-chosen words Haskill offered, all of which unlocked the answer to dealing with Relmyna, or so she suspected.

The inside of Xaselm was not the crumbling, filthy ruin one might expect. As far as stone buildings underground, it was as close to immaculate as the environment permitted. Lahallia suspected an army of Dark Guardians wielding brooms stood at the ready, hidden somewhere in the complex.

Lahallia spared no attention for any of the apparent _experiments_ being run in the margins, placed neatly like sweets in a box, organized, probably well-documented. She had to work not to notice any of it. If she did…Lahallia shivered, hoping Orphael would not notice.

Orphael did not, moving as though nothing was wrong, but all the while his mind was assailed by the tug of blank spots in his memory. Thank goodness, perhaps, he could not remember what filled those blank spots. As they moved forward his mental haze lifted, punctuated by the sounds of sobbing, the pitiful sounds of someone too long in pain.

Lahallia quickened her pace. In a large room—possibly a central hub to the Xaselm complex—a chain extended from a fastening at the ceiling. Hanging from the chain, suspended by the wrists to within an inch of the floor hung Nanette Don.

Stripped to the waist her back, which faced where Lahallia and Orphael stood, was a raw, bloody mass, the skin and muscle torn raggedly as if by claws. The culprit, chained nearby, groaned. An atronach, or something _like_ an atronach stitched together clumsily with what looked—and smelled—like partially decomposed flesh, with merciless rusty iron claws. The red stone embedded in its breast glowed and pulsed.

Much like, and yet unlike, a miniature or sub-class of the Gatekeeper.

"What has Relmyna been _doing_ to her…?" Lahallia could not stop the question, or the horror in her tone.

"Don't ask. You probably wouldn't want to know," Orphael answered. He walked boldly up to the suffering human, touching the back of her neck on one of the few undamaged patches. Nanette promptly sagged, her pitiful whimpers quieted but not silenced, mingled with the ragged breathing brought on by sleep.

Lahallia moved forward as well, her eyes scanning the damage. It was hard to discern, with the sheets of blood flowing from the giant wound. How long had she hung like this? How was it she had not bled out, for the drain beneath her feet evidenced a great deal of blood? Where to begin? And where was Relmyna? "We have to get her down…" At the very least.

"_I_ don't think so."

Lahallia turned to see Relmyna standing at the top of a short flight of stairs, a small notebook clutched in her hands, looking like the cat confronted with broken-winged canaries. Lahallia's mind worked quickly as Relmyna drifted down the steps.

"Treason cannot be tolerated, after all. She should feel honored. Normally I would simply dispose of her after all this," she waved at Nanette's back, "but she _is_ a clever girl. And will be much less talkative by the time I finish this lesson."

The implications which came to mind at these words made Lahallia want to blast Relmyna to ashes with here and now. The Gatekeeper looked like a monster, but it was governed only by instinct, base and unrefined. Relmyna wore the skin of a handsome Dunmer woman, but she was certainly one of the greatest monsters Lahallia ever saw or read about.

"Treason?" Lahallia could not quite keep the note of distaste out of her voice, despite all her efforts to the contrary. "May I inquire as to what treason warrants _this_?"

Relmyna's smile faded, her red eyes darkening perceptibly. "_You _should know. I've heard of you. Duchess. Inquisitor. Invader. _Murderer_. Was it really wise to enter my home without leave?" Her eyes flicked over to Orphael, a sadistic smile returning. "And as for you, my little blackbird…"

Orphael found anger edging out fear, and so glowered at her. Blackbird indeed.

Relmyna took her attention away from him, to address Lahallia again. "You've slaughtered my child, you've interrupted Nanette's training. I am most…displeased."

Relmyna set her book of notes on the floor, in order to free her hands. "Have you ever wondered what your own entrails look like? She snapped her fingers. The heavy chain binding the atronach fell off. "I want the Altmer. You…" she looked Orphael up and down again, "you are a bonus, but no longer central focus. Wait quietly."

Lahallia reacted without a sign of the mounting terror in her mind, bowing in the courtliest fashion she could manage. Her mind worked twice the usual pace as she spun out a strategy like a spider casting a hasty web. "Surely my lady will refrain from such until I deliver the words send by Lord Sheogorath?"

Relmyna glanced to the shuffling atronach then at Lahallia. Anyone with even a minor awareness of such things _felt_ Lahallia prepare to throw her entire magical strength against Relmyna, should it come to that. So powerful were the palpable auras of the two women, neither cared to notice Orphael's contribution—something to blast the two of them aware, though it was likely such an attempt might blast _him_ into itty bitty fragments as well.

Lahallia's temper surged up, like a dragon roused from slumber. _How dare she_? How dare this perverse vivisectionist threaten her? Threaten her escort? If anger lent power, she would shred Relmyna to bloody tatters—she had power enough for _that_, and leave just enough of the Dunmer alive to feel _pain._

If she ever got the chance, she would see Relmyna Verenim _dead as a doornail. _

"Hmm, a trick of desperation." The hidden portcullises cutting off this room from the rest of Xaselm slammed down, magically reinforced to prevent escape of prisoners or experiments. "Now, speak. It extends your state of blissful ignorance of the intricacies of your own innards." Relmyna announced, magnanimously.

Lahallia bowed again, Orphael edging towards her, unsure of what game she was playing, but unwilling to hint that he did not know.

"Lord Sheogorath sends his regards…and his love," Lahallia did not look up even as she told the clever lie. "And bids me also tell you not to waste your valuable time and inimitable talents on punishing Miss Nanette, for it was not she who betrayed your son."

Orphael listened, but could not quite believe the fibs coming out of Lahallia's mouth, or the amount of believability she put into them. Part of him wondered where she got all her information, and how much she simply _guessed_. Glancing at Relmyna however, he was glad to see the old witch's attention as not longer focused on causing pain, but on Lahallia's words.

"With your permission, as an apology for the inconvenience of unnecessarily detaining your apprentice, may I send Orphael to see to her?" Lahallia asked delicately. "Restoring her to usefulness is the least I may do, for this regrettable misunderstanding." The bow and scrape routine left no bad taste in her mouth, for she knew there was no subservience in it. It was an act, a cunning act to be played when a situation called for it. Nothing more.

Relmyna did not address the issue, so Orphael moved off to one side. Deftly he discerned the components of the chain and dispelled those he could, causing it to release Nanette. She landed heavily, coming back to consciousness, sobbing again, her half-whimpered words indiscernible. Very gently, Orphael lifted her up, though it could not be comfortable, as he had to sling her over his shoulder to avoid undue discomfort from her flayed back.

He had no clear idea of where he was going, only that he wanted to get her out of Relmyna's sight—but did not want Lahallia out of his sight. He collected the sobbing Nanette off the floor, addressing her quietly. He did not, however, want to leave Lahallia at Relmyna's mercies.

Nor did he want to take away any of her face while in Relmyna's presence, so he compromised by simply removing Nanette from out of Relmyna's line of sight, to the blocked hallway behind Relmyna. He could heal her as well in an empty hallway as anywhere else, and this way he would be there if Lahallia needed help.

"You slew my son, you travel with one of my escaped experiments…" Relmyna strode forward and gave Lahallia a clout to the side of the head.

The blow was not a particularly strong one, but Lahallia stumbled, her eyes flashing before she could stop the show of anger. But when she spoke, her voice came out calm, almost sad as she spun her web. "Lord Sheogorath has already expressed his…displeasure." Lahallia dropped her voice, expecting the blow that did not come. "He was very angry indeed. My punishment for such an insult has been postponed, until his use for me has run out. I was told to tell you so."

Relmyna reached grabbed Lahallia's chin, forcing the Altmer look her in the eye, despite Lahallia standing somewhat taller than Relmyna. Relmyna's fury did not abate, but good judgment crept in. If Lord Sheogorath had a use for this Altmer, it behooved her not to interfere. Perhaps he would let her have the Altmer once he was finished…he'd done so before, with pawns who outlived their uses, or failed him. "I hope, when the time comes, he lets me _help_," she snarled. Letting go of Lahallia's chin she gave a disgusted grunt.

"I have a further message. Shall I continue now?" Lahallia asked humbly.

"You may." Relmyna responded, only vaguely aware when Orphael slipped quietly back to stand behind her.

The Mazken knew he had done all he could, in lessening the wounds on Nanette's back and putting a spell of sleep upon her. It would take someone far more skilled than he to repair her completely, but at least her back no longer bled, though it still looked raw and painful.

"Lord Sheogorath says that the time has come for a second child. Not to replace the first, but to ease the loss," Lahallia chose her words very carefully. "He regrets he is unable to come to assist this time, but hopes you have the strength and the courage to carry on."

Relmyna's eyes stung at the thought. Another child? And without _his_ help? Her mouth puckered as if she were biting back tears or a furious diatribe, even as the idea took root in the soil of her twisted mind.


	48. Chapter 48

Chapter Forty-Eight: Madness is Catching

--SI--

The Mazken garrison still stationed at the Fringe welcomed Lahallia, but not her choice to take Orphael with her into the devastation. In fact, both Eylara and Udico argued furiously against it, convinced this was just Relmyna trying to get someone killed. Two someones.

At the end of the matter, only a sharp word as Duchess of Dementia gained Lahallia admittance into the Ordered wasteland. Apparently the garrison here took on other nuances to their mandate, to keep people within the realm proper _within the realm_, as much as to cover the entrance from invaders. At least until things settled down and got sorted out.

The idea of a new Gatekeeper, while repellant to all came as a relief just the same. A Gatekeeper like the first, perhaps a little more refined, would free the Mazken for other duties. Once the Gatekeeper again protected this entrance to the Isles, no one wanted to stay close enough to smell him, or hear the inhuman grunts and huffing breath.

Orphael stopped at the base of the stairs, looking about him, as though something caught his ear.

"What is it?" Lahallia stopped walking, but did not turn, giving her the appearance of prescience unlike her Visions.

Orphael shook his head. The Order dust did not fall, so much as drift like snow, drifting and piling up like ash, further enhancing the ambiance of a ghost town. He flinched with surprise when Lahallia's fingertips slipped past his cloak to brush his bare arm, momentarily disregarding both the hesitancy of a Seer touching another living being, and…

…he did not want to give that 'and' words just yet. But there was something there. Something he wanted, and did not want to share. Not even with Sheogorath—though the audacity of the thought of keeping something, deliberately, from his lord and master shook him.

Lahallia did not withdraw her hand when Orphael blinked, coming back to himself. She could almost feel Vision triggers trembling beneath his skin. Warm skin stretched tightly over coiling, rippling muscles. Orphael gave Lahallia's gray cloak—an article issued to the both of them before the garrison permitted them to advance—a twitch, drawing up her hood and setting it carefully on her head, hiding her pale hair, as well as most of her features. But her vivid mouth remained unshadowed above her white chin.

He reached up before Lahallia could return the gesture, pulling his own hood up. "Stay close—these cloaks are…"

"Endowed with a chameleon spell, to render us as close to invisible as possible, while travelling hostile territory, freeing up other resources for battle or defense," Lahallia answered promptly. She felt the spell activate once the hood settled over her hair. A clever bit of work, that, to function only when properly equipped.

Orphael nodded as they began crossing the barren stretch of Passwall. The air hung empty, dead, almost _blank_. A spot on the back of Orphael's neck began to itch, as though hidden Hungers or something equally unpleasant eyed him like a choice morsel.

It happened in an instant. He could see Lahallia move several steps before him. But in a haze something like memory swam before his eyes. Maddened, nearly berserk Sanguinites battling an impossible, implacable foe. He thought he could see the glint and glitter of something reflected off facets, small, hunched almost bestial shapes moving through the fumes of battle…but no hatred, no anger. Nothing.

…and over everything a veil of falling ash.

"What do you see?" The voice, soft and low, did not dispel the vision now fogging Orphael's eyes. Lahallia knew the look of strange, powerful memory, and coming from a Mazken, the content thereof held a certain amount of fascination.

"Battle."

Soft hands slipped around Orphael's own, dispelling the feel of a heavy sword biting into his palms as a Dremora went screaming past, massive mace raised, reveling in battle. _Glittering chips fell in an explosion of dull diamond dust. _"Dust."

_Acrid smells, and dust, that disgusting, choking, lung-clogging…but it was not. It _should _be, but it was not. Not to him. Not right now._ "It's a weapon."

Lahallia continued to lean against Orphael, but for once Vision triggers seemed to retreat, shying away from her. She never begrudged the fickle nature of her Sight more than now. Orphael's mind wandered far, and he was not used to articulating through the distractions he was currently faced with.

This sudden resurgence of memory puzzled Lahallia. It must be a fragment, the Daedra here indicated little fragments existed…but this one was large, otherwise he would have seen the whole of it by now. She rested her forehead against his back, eyes closed.

_The Dremora had not, he realized, run past him coming from behind, an ally. He was a foe, and a moment later a shining, dull crystal sword swung through the air, held by an armored hand. But pain seared through his back as a sword punched through. Looking down, all he could see was a crystalline breastplate._

Orphael's physical eyes closed, making the vision…it had to be an effect of Lahallia, of being close to her…she was rubbing off on him, in this dead place…there was no other answer…

"Orphael," her breath touched his lips, her hands tightening.

"No. I'm…" He choked, shuddered and keeled forward, twitching. Lahallia closed her eyes, wishing there was a spell to make her able to see whatever was passing through his mind. Orphael was no Seer…but the fit ceased to look like an attack of Vision. For a moment she thought she caught a strange glitter in his eyes, something which passed too quickly to really identify, but something she _knew_ should not be there. She rolled him onto his back, hunching over him so as to keep the Order dust from settling on him. Orphael's suddenly tense muscles ceased twitching, and he sank back, eyes half open.

Was _that_ what it was? Over-exposure to the Order dust affecting fragmented memory? Forcing things of Madness to sidle towards Order? The theory did not seem unsound, but in the realm of Madness, things went by contraries as often as not.

--SI--

…_he crashed to his knees as the sword was torn from his guts. But when he hit the ground he was not dead. His armor shattered, disintegrating as he watched, naked, shell-less, robbed of protection, as a haze encroached upon clarity. The vulnerability was staggering, horrific, more than the pain. What was pain? Nerves sending messages to the brain, sending reactions to muscles. Instinct. Uncontrolled, unregulated instinct. And he was trained…created not to respond…yet he curled here, shivering in the dust of his master's crumbling kingdom, like any mere Daedra…and not…_

_A cold touch took his breath, supplanted by a gnawing, burning which enveloped his skin. It tore at him, to his very core like sharp claws into delicate mortal flesh. _

_Rolling over he saw a leering Dremora, holding a red-hot brand in one hand, and a whip in the other. Red eyes glittered, but strong hands, too strong for their size apparently, forestalled the Dremora, who looked angry at being restrained from many further cruelties. "This one's finished, move along." The voice belonged to a beautiful female, white haired, crowned in white roses instead of a helm, dressed in black silk, with elaborately wrought armor, not unlike that which the Mazken and Aureal females wore, but silver, studded with pearls, embellished with roses. It was she who wielded the accursed sword. _

"_Master Azura!" A male Daedra, carrying a brand of the same fashion as the Dremora joined her, looking haggard. _

"_It's working," Azura smiled, but pity tinged the smile._

_Sweat tricked down his brow as he shuddered in pain, breath coming in gasps. Had he ever needed to breathe? Had he not just…existed? Marched, fought, battled, unresting, relentless…part of the surging tide?_

"_I should have expected anything Mehrunes came up with would be a cruelty in and of itself," the scorn translated in a way his ears never perceived before. _

_Ears? Was he anything before but a suit of armor with a crystal core? His kin crawled with a sensation which made him shiver. Cold. _

"_What do you see, Damiel?" _

_Why was she just standing there, when a battle raged? It made no sense…his mind began to spin, a physical sense of dizziness which would have knocked him to the ground if he were standing. _

_The invoked Damiel peered down coolly at him. The pain stopped, but he could scarcely move. "I think it's done. But that's not what you meant is it?" _

_The Dremora heaved a sigh, fingering his whip awkwardly because of the brand in his other hand. "I think it's afraid. Must be a bit of a new experience for it." Disgust tinged the Dremora's voice, and his expression as he sneered. "What a waste of flesh, blood and bone." _

"_Him, not it. Tame your tongue and have him taken to the Preserve. He can wait with the others…" Came the cold order from the woman. The Dremora bridled under the order but merely curled his lips away from his fangs in a grimace, but made to obey._

"_What have you done to me…" the words came out in a voice he had not known he had, scratchy in a throat not used to working. His eyes burned as he blinked. _

_The female merely nodded at her attendant, who bowed his head. Before the Dremora could heft the shivering creature over his shoulder like a sack of grain, the purple-skinned Daedra pressed two long fingers into the fallen creature's side. _

_Cold paralysis struck him, rendering him lax as…what sorts of things were lax? Something soft materialized around him, a habit of green, coarse material. He hung there, the Dremora's grumbling loud in his ears, watching his own arms flopping about, useless as noodles. From where he hung, he could see others, like himself, and other things sprawled on the ground._

_He closed his eyes. _

_So this was defeat. In the worst possible way. _

_Water seeped from beneath closed eyelids, his mind no longer able to sort out instinct and base emotions from logic, or anything else. And _that _left him feeling more naked than at any point previously. _

_And now he could worry. What did they plan to do to him? What torture lay ahead, greater than that which he suffered now? Every subjective word cut like a knife. _

--SI--

Orphael half-expecting to see this _Preserve_ around him, crowded with other animals, creatures trapped and frightened. His heart pounded in his chest, his neck muscles stiff. Yet he did not lie on the hard, cold ground, but against something warm, and very soft. Something smelling…pretty. A warm hand rested on his chest, just below his collarbones.

He was half-crumpled on the ground leaning against a woman. No, the Duchess. Lahallia. "What do you want from me?" The hazy, slurred question neither made sense, nor belonged to…to what?

The bravado covering genuine terror, barely suppressed alarmed Lahallia. She pressed a hand to his forehead, tilting it against her shoulder. After those first few moments, Orphael ceased responding to her gentle promptings, her attempts to get him to tell her what he saw failing. "Come back," Lahallia ignored the question.

When Orphael blinked, it brought memory, and solidarity, consciousness. "What…happened…?" but he knew, deep down, he knew.

"This place is affecting you," Lahallia helped him to his feet, but let him lean on her. "Badly." It had to be Order twisting the Mazken, though she could not see _how_. Change was Mehrunes Dagon's bailiwick…unless it was part of Order's nature to force things to fit its paradigm…well, such explanation was logical enough.

"How?"

"I don't know." Not knowing what he saw, and suspecting he did not plan to tell her, she could make no further guess.

Except the Mazken here seemed to have the right idea in staying close to the Gates, and not wanting to let people roam too far away from them. Maybe enough Madness leaked over the Gates to keep them safe from Order's attempts to subjugate them as it had the rest of the Fringe. Could a Gatekeeper stand up to that? Constructed by mortal hands, perhaps so, but all the same, Lahallia knew this march had to stop. Soon. "We should hurry, I want to get out of here as fast as we can."

Orphael got stiffly to his feet, stretching to limber up a little. "Is this what it feels like when you have Visions?" If so, he felt far more compassionate about hers than ever before. The moments of feeling so closely associated with the original viewer already faded, leaving him with the sensation of having tripped and with the end result of a hand punching through a wall.

He certainly looked as though he had just experienced something similar to Vision, though he did not display any of the major throes Lahallia usually dealt with. He had mumbled as though dreaming, caught in a nightmare, but after the collapse and those first twitches he went limp as string. "Is that what it was? You _Saw_?"

"No. This place gives me a headache…plays tricks on my mind. It's just Order trying to order _me_, I think." Not quite true, but not quite a lie. The wry laugh he tacked on at the end fooled no one, and died quickly. It was impossible, after all. However, the wrenching discomfiture in his stomach made him wonder if he was not finally going mad himself. Could Mazken go mad?

--SI--

Shambles guarded the Gardens, bony sentinels which fell quickly before the Duchess and her escort. Lahallia noticed her magicka taking on a wild tang not present before. In any case, it made spells leap to her fingers almost wildly. Insanely, if she dare say it.

The Attendant's question of why this should be never crossed her mind. Forcing her powers to do her will—and do it right—was a far better use of her energy than asking inane questions.

The Gardens of Flesh and Bone changed very little since her first venture there, looking more like a graveyard than ever, ankle-deep in ashy Order flakes. The flakes crumbled and crushed to fine powder underfoot, staining boots and clinging like bad memories. This time they stepped past the bones of former Gatekeepers, Orphael asking quietly about Lahallia's battle with the last brute.

Its body lay here, too, covered in Order ash, probably decomposing. "No, he always smelled like that." Lahallia held her sleeve over her nose as Orphael led her to a doorway, nearly hidden in the surface ruins. He touched the door, then pushed, grunted and pulled out his sword. He slid it between the doors, closing his eyes. His magical signature flared for a moment before he removed the sword, sheathed it, and pushed on the doors again.

This time they creaked open, the balance off, so they scraped and moved grudgingly. "Don't even think about splitting up," Orphael warned, seizing Lahallia's arm.

Lahallia patted his hand, smiling up at him reassuringly. "I wasn't going to." No, she did not want to.

The way she said it made Orphael sure her acquiescence to staying together was purely for _his_ sake, when she knew full well it was she for whom he worried. Contrary little thing that she was, he exhaled sharply, but said nothing. At least she was not being stubborn. Contrary was fine, he could deal with contrariness, being well practiced in it himself.

Lahallia strode into the darkness, Malice naked in her hand. Her footsteps, soft as she could make them so as not to alert any lurking enemies, nonetheless echoed in the corridor. Despite looking like any other ruin within the Isles, it was not. There was something different; almost as if madness sanctified the place in a way no other place in the Fringe, perhaps in the Isles, seemed sanctified. "Does this place feel strange to you?" Lahallia finally asked. The lack of enemies worried her in a way nothing else had.

Orphael noticed this strangeness the moment he walked into the place, though to him it was not strange. It had the same silent, almost prayerful atmosphere as some of the rooms in Pinnacle Rock. Rooms designed to settle an insubstantial sense of calm and safety for the inmates when they let their minds rest from duties.

Here, however, the sense was cold, foreboding, threatening to those who did not belong. Duchess and Mazken as they were, apparently they _did not belong. _"If feels like Pinnacle Rock, only menacing. I think it would defend itself, if the Fringe was not Ordered." His voice echoed and bounded, shattering and reverberating on the walls until Lahallia dropped Malice to cover her ears.

Orphael would have liked to, but felt it would lack fortitude, though he did catch Malice before it hit the ground. When the sound mercifully dissipated, he jogged Lahallia's elbow, returning her sword to her. "I don't think you'll need this," he whispered, the hallway magnifying his voice to normal tones.

"Better safe than sorry." Lahallia shivered as her whisper came back to her, echoing threateningly. This place already defended itself, the brooding intimidation of it, the echoes rendered malevolent enough to scare the faint hearted.

But she was the Duchess of Dementia, and Sheogorath set her a task. At least she was not alone.

Orphael noted the change in Lahallia's posture. Finally, after their last argument about Order versus the Isles, she was really beginning to wear the mantle of Duchess, and wear it well. Even if he had not felt things as yet unlabeled towards her, he would have shared the Mazken consensus that Lahallia Kiranni was a Duchess in the best possible sense. A jewel in the succession of leaders, elven and nearly immortal.

Yes, Syl was assassinated, a deed unfoiled by the Mazken guard—despite some efforts. He intended to see the same fate did not befall _this_ Duchess. Orphael picked up his pace, the pair of them making enough noise to wake the dead—which Orphael hoped was just a way of thinking, and not a presentiment of what would find them.

Trust Relmyna to leave the 'ingredients' for her Gatekeepers in a place like this, and sent people here to die, likely as not, while flitting about like people at market. What did she want? Blood Liqueur, Dermis Membrane, Essence of Breath and Osseous Marrow, all of which sounded disgusting, and things Lahallia _should not touch_.

Not unless she wanted to have Visions, and risk falling _into_ whatever goo surrounded these things. Trust Relmyna to set up a shrine of uncleanness around her ingredients. What a joy it would be to hang her on her own hooks and let cannibalistic clowns nibble her to death.

Too bad Lord Sheogorath wouldn't permit it.


	49. Chapter 49

Chapter Forty-Nine: 'Flesh, Blood, Breath and Bone'

--SI--

The second level of the Gardens' subterranean ruins showed not all the Isles integrity had yet leeched out of the Fringe. The lower levels also held the guardians Lahallia expected. Putrid, rotting undead, and the strange fleshy behemoths, like those tethered in Relmyna's domain shuffled and lurked. They further reinforced Lahallia's belief that Relmyna was too sick to live. The perverse nature of the fleshy atronachs made her stomach twist and turn, wondering if they were once people Relmyna warped, twisted and experimented into…_these things. _

That was somehow worse than a construct made of living creatures' 'leftovers'.

Orphael was no help, not knowing how to unravel them, or how Relmyna constructed them in the first place. The best he could do to simply put them out of their misery, but in this place with madness leeching out atronach, Duchess and Mazken fought on fairly equal footing. Well, not quite so equal, because the Duchess and the Mazken could work together, more or less.

In the darkness of the lower level, the hearts of the atronachs shone dull red. Coupled with their muffled groans, it was all the warning the intruders had before clumsy hands swiped out of the darkness—a darkness which seemed to absorb the light of magelights, instead or retreating from it.

Lahallia stopped walking, taking her cloak off. Sweat made her clothes and hair stick and cling uncomfortably, and in the greenish blue miasma of their magelights Orphael, too, looked sweaty—though it lent a sheen to his skin which played interesting tricks with the light and the planes of his face. Lahallia tied the cloak in a thick, clumsy knot about her waist, unable to bear the additional heat of it.

Orphael, knowing the heat would not be any worse or better without the cloak, which was designed for camouflage, not temperature considerations, did not doff his. Nor did he miss the glance Lahallia bestowed on him, half-envying, half-disbelieving that he could wear a wrap in this moist heat. He merely shrugged, and they continued on their way, ears pricked for nay warning of more atronachs.

Orphael did wonder, for a brief moment, if this was where Relmyna sent all her early experiments in the crafting process. Some of them did seem a little more…ragged…than others.

--SI--

The wade through heat, darkness, and guardians finally led Lahallia and Orphael to the first milestone of their journey, which they both greeted with some relief. Growing out of a shallow pit filled with sand near the far wall, spiky, bony protrusions struggled out, like skeletal fingers clawing for escape from quicksand. Evil mushrooms, Orphael thought, testing the sand for traps, which was a euphemistic way of saying 'wading through it to see what would happen'. The bony protrusions really did look like mushrooms as he got closer, mushrooms with flesh-like caps, skin stretched taut over a bony frame.

"Is it safe?" Lahallia's voice, so long silent, startled him.

The sand slipped underfoot when he tested his weight on it, but he neither sunk in up to his neck, nor lost his balance. "I think so..."

Lahallia did not wait for him to finish, stepping past him into the sandy pit. She shifted her footing, the sand proved quite treacherous, though not deadly so. The mushrooms smelled foul, and she now knew where, exactly, some of the Gatekeeper's reek came from. The putrid odor of decomposing flesh left her a sickening certainty, that this was the dermis membrane Relmyna demanded.

Thank madness she had brought containers for these things—Relmyna wanted them as unadulterated as possible—and thank madness again Relmyna only needed a small sample, the barest catalyst for her great creation.

Thank madness? Where had _that_ come from? Lahallia shoved the notion aside, as well as the monologue Relmyna gave, Lahallia having only listened to a few more words past basic instructions.

Lahallia summoned the small crystal vial from Relmyna's lab. Relmyna refused to consider allowing two such faulty messengers carry the precious ingredients, and so made certain arrangements.

Orphael rolled his eyes at the woman's obsessive nature. Insane or not, the Isles did not need her ilk. What a pity Lord Sheogorath thought she belonged here. He could see why Nirn had not wanted her.

Lahallia remained grateful she did not have to carry any of these components in her pocket. She was no little boy to carry toads and snakes about with her, or to keep mice in a box under the bed. Carefully she approached the mushrooms, but stopped short. She could feel Vision triggers pulsing in the air around them. If she took another step forward, she would be within the sphere of those influences.

Yet she could not shake the notion that the instant one of those mushrooms left the colony, she would See, whether or not she harvested the ingredient herself. It all had to do with proximity. Whatever else these things were…As instinctively as she found herself acting the part of Duchess, she simply knew this was one of those times where she could not escape her so-called gift.

Swallowing she took a deep breath, reached out an hand and with some effort, snapped one of the stalks free, as though it were nothing more than an alchemical ingredient gathered from the mundane wilds.

Orphael watched Lahallia stiffen, moving towards her to make sure she neither fell, nor injured herself. He did not trust the sand not to suck her under, or try something equally dangerous. Lahallia did not thrash or flail, in fact the air around her seemed to hum, intense. She trembled, but as one staggering under a great weight. Something had changed, was changing. Was it due to the Order over their heads…or something else?

He pulled her back from the sand, glad when she moved, though numbly. Once they both stood on solid ground again, he kissed her neck softly, then waited for the fit to pass. He could do very little else.

--SI--

_Defeat. Incalculable defeat. Defying all logic. Impossible. _

_Yet the Chessmen were gone. Beyond his reach. He could not call them. He could not compel them. _

_The Faceted Endless was neither present, not destroyed. It simply was _not there_. But he was there, standing several feet above the lapping waters of Oblivion. Severed from realm and servants, all he could do was watch as the Fifteen Princes stood round him, those with mouths unsmiling, all emanating a caging aura, trapping him in a way insulting._

_If he could feel enough to be insulted. _

_For a moment, everything grew dark, except for glowing eyes, or orbs of light for those who had no eyes. _

_Even Mora. The only one of them who could understand the necessity of the March…and yet there it wriggled. _

"…flesh, blood, breath and bone…" _Fifteen as one spoke, and he felt himself torn asunder. _

--SI--

Lahallia came back to herself with a thud of mind falling into place that would have sent her toppling face-first into the smelly fungi. Fortunately, Orphael had a hold of her, and did not let her fall, pulling her against his chest as her balance shifted. Her mind swirled with confusion, as one who walks into the middle of a play never before seen. Tension hummed behind her eyes, but nothing worse than that.

"That fit did not seem so bad," Orphael said after a moment, carefully caressing her throat with his gloved fingers.

"It wasn't." Lahallia looked around, wondering at this, wishing in some back compartment of her mind he did not have the gloves on…but this was not place for those sorts of thoughts. "It's strange…but we've no time. You should have slapped me awake…"

"You weren't…_there_…for more than a few minutes, we're still doing well." Orphael knew what Lahallia meant, that she was willing to undergo a little physical pain in order to make good time, with the Greymarch in progress. The idea remained distasteful.

--SI--

They found the blood liqueur guided almost by smell alone. The reek of pooled blood and a faint undercurrent of something vaguely familiar but wholly alien seemed something that should only exist in Mephala's realm, or perhaps Mehrunes Dagon's. Maybe it did, 'Blood Liqueur' sounded like the sort of thing one should be able to find in either place. But blood it looked, gushing from a fountain at the back of a room, which was more like a swimming pool than a room. Orphael actually walked over the edge, finding himself ankle deep in the warm, silky mess before he realized.

"Wait," he raised an arm to prevent Lahallia from doing the same, quashing the disgust of his current surroundings. This was a Dremora sort of place.

Lahallia did not let him stop her. She summoned the vial to contain the blood liqueur as she stepped easily around him, though she appreciated the gesture. Wading through blood—thank goodness Mazken boots seemed proof against liquids!—was not something about which she was ever curious. She was halfway to the fountain when she stopped, closing her eyes as shivers ran up and down her body, her breath catching in her throat.

Orphael swore, forcing his magelight to grow brighter. Lahallia's eyes glittered, but not in the same way as for Visions past. Something strangely familiar graced her features, something un-Altmer. She still trembled, but her wide, staring eyes made him think something was not…usual.

--SI--

_He was like a child, a little child with a new toy. A wonderful toy, and he could make of it what he liked. Large mountains_. _Little rivers. A castle of his very own, and he could have _people _to come live here, if he wanted. Who he wanted. Whatever he wanted._

_The land was young, wild, untamed, pulsing with a vibrant, lifeblood all its own, so different from the nasty seas around the islands…for islands they were. But he wanted fewer. Two of the largest massed suddenly appeared as one, each shimmering in his eyes with one of two distinct auras. He liked them, they were colorful, and if he got bored with one…there was the other to distract him! It kept things fresh! Interesting! "Do the seas have names?" he demanded, his voice oddly strange in his own ears. Should it sound like that…? Was there anyone to hear the question? _

_Oh, yes, yes to both questions. Obviously. _

"_No, my lord. Not as of yet." _

_Hmm, which meant he had to come up with names. How tiresome. It was more interesting to turn the clouds lurid green. With purple spots. "I…_we _shall call them…Clowns and Mimes. Biscuits and Cheese? We should have all four—we like clowns, mimes, biscuits and cheese." Abruptly, the latter two appeared by his elbow, on a silver plate, and the former two began to run amok over the land, gnawing at trees, or breaking down stones with invisible hammers, each drawn to one or the other of the two distinct hemispheres of the Isles. _

"_Feisty lot, aren't they? Shoo! We shall call the seas…not Clowns and Mimes, or Cheese and Biscuits…do you like cheese?" _

"_No, my lord." _

"_Hmph. Neither do we…" for a moment something dark swam in his mind, something dangerous, but it never came out of his mouth, and so vanished like a puff of smoke. "Enjaen and Emean. Take this down, so we don't forget." _

"_Of course, my lord. Would you like to see your servants?" _

"_Servants? _Our _servants?" Servants? For him? How exciting—a lovely present! A wonderful idea! Were they colorful? They _must _be colorful…but first, the ordering of the kingdom, _his _kingdom. He wanted to put it together, but didn't want it to be boring, and that would take time. _

_Who cared about time? He had all the time in the world and nothing better to do._

_Wouldn't mushrooms look pleasant on those hills? Big mushrooms casting spores about like confetti! _

--SI--

Lahallia wobbled on her feet, her skin coated in cold sweat, unlike that which these underground passages encouraged. Again she was left with the feeling of having glimpsed something through a crack in a door. No faces, no names, no discernable voices, just two separate entities. And the Isles spreading out below, like a map.

It left her not wanting to know much more, because the questions these new Visions triggered scared her. She wondered if they _were_ Visions of the normal sort at all. They did not _feel _like the normal variety.

For Orphael's sake she quenched the notion, wading into the bloody pool to catch water from the fountain. Relmyna was specific about this: _blood liqueur from the source_.

Orphael said nothing, but bit the inside of his lip. It galled him he could do nothing more than stand here, making sure she neither drowned herself, nor did herself unwitting harm when these Visions seized her, thought these seemed to him so much stronger, for they did not permit her to thrash or struggle.

Or was it simply her fatalistic acceptance that these things would happen? Whatever it was, he did not like it, not when it left her so pale and frail-looking. Not when it gave her that unexplainable look while Visions forced her out of her own mind, into the moving current of time, barely tethered to the Now.

--SI--

Blood and flesh gave way to bone, massive bones growing, so it seemed, out of the very ceiling, lit all around by a profusion of withering moons, like paper lanterns in the cavern. Their pale green light gave the place a ghastly glow, but also made this the brightest place in the ruins so far.

Lahallia and Orphael stopped for a brief rest, taking a little water from their canteens as they leaned against a wall, sitting side by side. "How do you feel?" Orphael asked, feeling rather foolish.

"Tired," Lahallia admitted. "The heat just takes everything out of me."

Orphael did not think it was just the heat, but did not share this idea. She had not asked for his opinion.

"You don't look so well yourself." It was true, Orphael's skin appeared somewhat ashen in the strange light. "Is there anything…anything I can do?"

Normally Orphael might have teased her a bit, gotten her wound up and riled, but something in her tone dismissed this as a proper course of action. "I should be asking you." And not because she was his Duchess. "No, I don't think so."

Lahallia shifted, wrapping his arm around her, and settling almost with her back against his ribs despite the heat. "I am never coming back down here. Relmyna can go herself, next time."

Orphael chuckled at this, but the chuckle died in the darkness. Sooner or later, they would have to go get the Osseous Marrow. He knew Lahallia would once again go where he could not follow. All he could do was make sure no harm came to her body—but he worried about her mind. She had the gracing touch of insanity. Usually he would have anticipated full immersion…yet he found he did not want to see her wholly lost to it.

Lahallia got up, marching resolutely to the bony growths. The sooner she got the ingredients, the sooner she could get out of here.

--SI--

_All was in—dare he say it?—order. The Shattered Mind finally declared himself satisfied with both his empty realm and his own appearance. _

_How long had it taken? He could not tell—time did not exactly matter here, not yet at least. And not so long as the Shattered Mind ruled. Time was a loose concept, with regards to the progression of days and nights. Yet another something to keep the Shattered Mind from boredom._

_Not forever, but for a good long while, he hoped. Perhaps it was because this was the first organization of the kingdom. The Palace certainly did not meet _his _tastes, but what were his tastes? He would not have built a palace looking like a lopsided cake, frosted in pink and blue tiles. _

_Nor would he have lived in a giant gold and emerald mushroom—this one scrapped because the Shattered Mind detested the stairs._

_At least this incarnation of the Palace resembled a palace. The Shattered Mind finally announced he would 'leave the details to you. You're our detail person'. Joy unbounded, but the Shattered Mind approved the long staircases leading up to the palace from the Split City. Make everyone else climb stairs, but not the Shattered Mind himself, oh no._

_It was a mercy he, himself, had no concept of boredom, no practical concept, anyway. This place made his teeth itch, but service bound him here, and here he would stay—unless the Shattered Mind changed the rules. But he could only change them so much. _

--SI--

"Get it!" Lahallia's joyous cry trailed behind her like a scarf. At least _this_ was fun! The air here, in pursuit of the elusive Essence of Breath was cooler, a relief from the stifling halls elsewhere. The dark halls, luminously lined with green and blue, twisted, turned, rolled up and down, crossing and crisscrossing, giving the glowing mist with its sound of breath taken in room to run.

From the moment it whipped about her, like a cat twining enthusiastically around ankles in welcome, tiredness, frustration, everything but the thrill and fun of chasing down this cheeky little breeze faded to peripheral details of little note. She had not yet tired of this game so like tag. Every time she lost track of it, felt sadness, frustration, all the troubles trying to bear down on her begin to reassert themselves—three times now—it reappeared a moment later to vanish the unhappiness, as though not ready to give up the game just yet.

But it was a fast little breeze!

Orphael, winded from charging after Lahallia—who cared about the impish breeze?—hunched to breathe. He could not see how she got the energy, all of a sudden, to run like a mad thing, happier than she had been in quite awhile. He knew his mistake the moment Lahallia whipped out of sight, her mad cackle of laughter drifting back to him.

It was good she was enjoying herself, but really—they had a job to do.

Oh, he suspected the breeze really was the Essence of Breath, or part of it, but shouldn't they be looking for a source, rather than chasing around this little wisp of air?

Lahallia knew she had lost Orphael, but at the same time, determination to catch this spritely wind possessed her. Part of her wondered if it might not want them separated for a reason—though what that might be she could not guess. Best to enjoy things while she could.

Suddenly she entered a room, pitch black, and staggered as the floor dropped down a short way, but kept her footing. Light began to glow. The little breeze she sought so doggedly whispered into the room, then wrapped itself about, settling between broken pieces of a tree trunk, rooted in both ceiling and floor, giving the room a light, of its own. Like a tired puppy, the breeze did not try to run when Lahallia stood up.

Lahallia did not move towards the light, she simply waited for Orphael as it breathed and shivered on its perch, taking opportunity catch her breath as she waited.

Orphael turned a corner, following the suddenly stationary glow and his innate sense of where the Duchess was. It was something Mazken shared, in case the Duke or Duchess ever disappeared, or was kidnapped. She stood there, a dark silhouette against the bright green-blue light. "Lahallia?"

As though responding to his voice Lahallia held up a hand, containing a glass phial. The breeze sighed, and a small tendril of it wafted towards the phial, which Lahallia capped. Smiling, she dismissed the whisper of breath in a bottle, ready to make her way back to the Isles.

Orphael sprang forward as Lahallia turned her back on the breeze on its perch, seeing what she did not. The breeze reared up, like an animal ready to pounce. It slammed into Lahallia's back, coagulating around her head before he could clear half the distance. She took a deep, involuntary breath, inhaling the glowing haze before she crashed to the ground, light, breeze and the life in her eyes gone.

For a moment Orphael was sure the Essence of Breath had killed her, but placing his cheek close to her mouth, he could feel it, strangely cool, as though she had just finished sucking on an ice cube. Her breath, however, came normally, and her skin remained warm to the touch.

A moment later the Essence of Breath reappeared, like breath on a cold day, and wobbled its way back to the perch, as though exhausted and unsettled by the experience.

--SI--

_Two spurts of water bubbled and glittered in a long, square room, behind a large stone chair. One bubbled sluggishly from the ground, knee-high, dark and gloomy, smelling strongly of decay, darkness, dirt and filth. The other sparkled, shooting up twice the height of a man, golden as sunshine with brilliant white sparkles like bubbles or dancing droplets weaving through it, a sweet cloying smell emanating from it. _

"_Well! Let's see them! I want my servants!" The_ _excitement was killing him—as was the constant use of 'we'. There was no 'we' there was him, and his rules, and his realm. End of discussion. This was a one-Prince show. _

"_Very well, my lord. Where shall I begin?"_

"_There! It's sparkly!" Today he liked sparkly. _

"_Very well." The scroll of names appeared in The Other's hand. Their faces were already changed, changing their names, and walking them through the Founts would be the last of the process of Severance and Reattachment. It would make all which was now drawing to completion truly complete. "Aureals, come forth…" _

_In order, by name, first the old, then the new, females first, then the males. The creatures strode boldly out of the water, unarmed, unarmored, protected only by large, bedraggled feathery wings in shades of gold, orange and warm rose. The weight of the feathery appendages gave the Aureals an ungainly way of moving, as though unused to their own wings. They hazed slightly as Sheogorath watched them pledge themselves tonelessly, and step aside. Their features changed, the last fine details put on a near-finished piece of work. _

_Then came the newly christened Mazken, in order, by name, first the old, then the new, females first, then the males. The creatures pulled themselves free of the water as though reluctant to do so, unarmed, unarmored, protected only by large, leathery wings in shades of luminous green, blue, or streaked in lavender. They, at least, had less trouble, wins open and raised as a creature posturing in hopes of avoiding a fight._

_Then it was done, and all the Daedra, Mazken and Aureal alike, blinked as though walking from bad dreams. They also took an immediate dislike of one another, snarling, and hissing, bunching up by species. Forgetting they were once one and the same. _

_No one would ever know. Not even the Shattered Mind. _

_Only he himself, The Other, because _someone _had to know. _


	50. Chapter 50

Chapter Fifty: The New Gatekeeper

--SI--

Night hung in a darker shade of gray over the Fringe when Lahallia and Orphael, exhausted, hungry and thirsty finally arrived at the Gates of Madness, en route to Xaselm. The return trip to that dungeon proved unnecessary, as Relmyna herself awaited them on the terrace before the Gates.

Seeing Relmyna, clad in white with a vivid crimson girdle about her waist, worked with slightly darker embroidery and winking with red jewels, did nothing to improve either of their tempers, so far kept in check.

Lahallia bowed, but showed no inclination to further politeness. Orphael merely stood there, without inclination towards any semblance of politeness. Feeling so mortally _tried_ was unusual, and soured his mood yet further.

Nanette Don lurked back with the Mazken garrison, dressed in a course-woven, loose-fitting garment of black, pale and drawn as though ill. From the way the Mazken clustered about her, she was probably hurt.

Still hurting, Lahallia corrected herself. Surely the Mazken would do what they could for Nanette, clandestinely so as not to draw Relmyna's attention. Lahallia suspected Relmyna had enough to occupy her should would not really notice Nanette's condition's improvement.

In the terrace below the Gates of Madness, thirteen unlit braziers stood, each worked of unadorned copper, except the thirteenth, which was pitch black. A blending the subtle smells of incense and something disgusting, a smell Lahallia could pin to the Gatekeeper, wafted about the terrace.

Or perhaps the smell emanated from the _pieces_ of Gatekeeper spread across the unpaved circle. Head, arms, torso, legs, all warped, all with metal fastened brutally into place. All rotting and festering. In her hands, Relmyna held a rack with the four ingredients retrieved from the Gardens of Flesh and Bone.

"I see the trip hasn't left you any the worse for wear. Pity." Relmyna's anger with Lahallia obviously had no abated in the least. She did not even glance at Orphael, with Lahallia as the central target of her ire.

Orphael shifted, resting a hand on his swordhilt. Favored or not, a mere subject of the Isles had no right to speak so fashion to the _Duchess_. Wasn't a Duchess far more favored than a mere madwoman, builder of Gatekeepers or not?

Not to his way of thinking. Were it at all possible, he would have educated her sharply at this point, but Relmyna was Relmyna. A little thing like this was not something he could start a fight over without upsetting Sheogorath. His orders rang in his ears, to keep both women from tearing each other to pieces.

Noticing Orphael, Relmyna's red eyes glittered with the promise that as soon as Lahallia got what was coming to her for the destruction of the first Gatekeeper—as she surely must—she could contend with _him_. "I wasn't talking to you. Go, stand over there. I won't have you in my way. You," Relmyna pointed at Lahallia, "will assist."

"Don't argue, it'll just draw things out," Lahallia mumbled to Orphael.

"I'll take your cloak, you won't want it in your way." He hated the idea of leaving Lahallia to assist Relmyna. If Relmyna asked for blood from the Altmer, he was going to give the new Gatekeeper blood of a Dark Elf instead. He did not trust Relmybna not to push Lahallia headfirst into the experiment, so ending any plans Lord Sheogorath had.

However, dutiful soldier as he was, he took Lahallia's cloak, and joined his fellow Mazken before the Gates. In low voices, the garrison and Orphael exchanged news, and the tale of what went on in the Gardens.

He did not mention Lahallia's Visions, or his own strange experience.

Meanwhile, Lahallia took Relmyna's rack of components, waiting for instructions. She ached, her head and neck muscles were a knot of tension, and now she had to hold this Dunmer's figuratively bloody hand in order to get the job done.

With her luck, she would no sooner get to the Palace, bathed and into bed then someone would come pounding on her door wanting her to get up and get back to work. A glance towards the Gates revealed Orphael, obviously speaking to his fellows, but leaning on the railing overlooking the terrace, watching her, as though for any sign of trouble.

She firmly squished the wish he could have stood down here with Relmyna and herself. She would have appreciated the company. But those thoughts were distracting, very distracting, especially coupled with the memory of their last argument.

Even the _memory_ of that kiss still made her lips tingle.

"I see you didn't fail in fetching anything out the Gardens. Could it be you found the place a source of fascination?" Relmyna asked, her voice full of neutrality, for once.

Lahallia shifted, her boots still bloody from retrieving the blood liqueur. "It was an…interesting place, certainly." Interesting indeed. The power of the Visions which so overcame her there also left her wishing for a little quiet time to herself, so she might go through them, try to figure them out.

"Perhaps you're not completely a lost cause. We begin!" The braziers burst into flames. Dark clouds began to gather overhead, swirling ominously, as a cold wind came blowing through, tugging at clothes and hair. "Step forward towards the Cistern of Substantiation."

Lahallia obeyed, as the paved circle seemed to absorb the laid-out Gatekeeper, the stone turning into something molten, sluggishly bubbling around the edges, giving off the powerful reek of Gatekeeper, only stronger, worse. Her empty belly ceased growling with hunger to scream with nausea. Doubtless she would have added a contribution to the cistern, had she anything in her stomach at this point.

Relmyna touched Lahallia's shoulder—though neither in friendliness, restrained, or to send her tripping into the cistern. Lahallia's clothes turned white, though her Mazken armor over them remained as black and green as ever. Details were important to Relmyna, and she would not have this Altmer impervious to them.

Relmyna's magical signature was almost unbearable, as the wind continued blowing, but not snuffing out the braziers. The Mazken moved down the steps, standing several steps apart, like beads on a string, but they did not come near the cistern. Orphael remained framed by the Gates. Lahallia could not see the ashen color his knuckles took on, even see his usual color creep back, the proximity to the Gate preventing the apparently operative Order-drain, worry turning him ashen.

He could feel Relmyna's magical signature crawling over his skin like so many worms, and knew the sensation would increase the closer anyone stood to the source.

Lahallia looked once more like the uncertain Attendant, suddenly trapped in the Isles. Even though it meant standing closer to Relmyna, Orphael wished he could take Lahallia's place.

Relmyna raised her hands. "Let no one speak…or I shall be _displeased_."

She might as well have said 'I will murder you all' as 'displeased', Lahallia thought disgustedly. The more she saw of Relmyna, the more she saw past the impressions fear gave of the Dunmer. Without those fear-inspired impressions, Relmyna was a shrunken, shriveled little madwoman, happy enough about harming others, but intolerant of pain directed at herself. She had power, but lacked the cohesion to win in a one-on-one mages' battle.

"At the beginning of the worlds were five. Fire, Water, Earth, Air, and Light. Darkness turned into day, the void took form. Hidden away, by virtue of its own self-awareness, was the sixth, containing within it the five which birthed it. Flesh!"

Lahallia did not show her deepening distaste. No wonder Relmyna was here: none of the Mages' Guilds in Tamriel would have her. Maybe the Telvanni did not even want her, and they had no love for the Mages' guild in the first place. Did Morrowind really have a line, which practitioners in that land should not cross?

Or had Relmyna never set foot there, with her desire to be revered by all? She would get no such coddling from other Dunmer.

Lahallia wiped her mind clear. It did not matter. Not in the slightest.

"Place the Dermis Membrane into the cistern." When Lahallia pulled the appropriate container free of the rack, Relmyna continued. The power pulling down towards the cistern gave further reason for no one to want to get too close. The malevolence of the cister's contents made those nearest to it feela s thoughs omehtign tugged them towards it, hungry for living things.

"Meat with the desire to consume like fire..." Lahallia knelt by the edge of the cistern, lightheaded from the reek, afraid to keel in, but determined not to. She waited, outwardly calm, for Relmyna's prompt for the blood liqueur. "Blood, liquid nutrient, that ocean which casts pearls of life upon the shores of existence..."

The Mazken shifted uncomfortably at the miasma of power moving through the deadened air, spreading out its area of effect to engulf them as well. It raised the hair on their necks, made them break out in a cold sweat, and raised the Duchess in their estimations. She knelt at the cisterns' edge, pale as death, but otherwise unconcerned.

Orphael knew her better, and prayed she would be able to keep her Visions at bay. All these triggers—he assumed there were many, given the circumstances—she had better shuffle away from the edge of that cistern…if she fell in, he knew there would be nothing to fish back _out_.

Yet for all this, he could not move to put himself a little closer to her, whether his better sense or something of the ceremony below he did not know.

Lahallia's eyes half closed as the cistern grew hot. The smell and warmth filled her nostrils, worked its way down her throat, and caused Visions to flicker across her waking eyes. She barely heard Relmyna mention bone. The component left the hand as though as she moved through a dream, the Visions no more than impression of suffering, agony, and horror.

Despite the low level of intrusion upon her mind, Lahallia wished she could not See. Too much was too much, and she had no desire for see anymore of Relmyna's brand of inflicted suffering.

"Breath, child of air, bestowing movement, the stirring of spirit...and last, the light of Flesh, the illumination of Soul—perception, thought, memory, imagination..."

Relmyna was, Lahallia realized sluggishly, draining her, 'borrowing' her own magicka to fuel this…mess. To do so without asking permission was considered a high form of insult, and were the situation not so necessary, Lahallia would have given Relmyna more 'borrowed' magicka than the Dunmer could stomach.

Lahallia lurched as the draw on her magicka gave one final tug, then release, letting her go. She caught herself just before she toppled over the edge of the cistern, into the boiling stench. Surely if she fell in the smell would never come off…

Orphael flinched as Lahallia lurched, but knew better than to go running down there, not out of fear of Relmyna—he was past that, for the moment—but for fear of taking away Lahallia's face before her Mazken. Still, it took effort, and the sounds of dissidence indicated he was not the only one who did not want to let this continue, with their Duchess so close to the edge of that cistern.

"Come to this altar. Join with this body. Quintessence of Flesh joined with the Essence of Flesh. Absolute in mortal. Immortal bound to contingent," Relmyna's voice grew until it vibrated in Lahallia's skull, and the skulls of all those present. "Stand clear of the cistern." Relmyna added, in a more normal tone, a strong hand seizing Lahallia by the scruff of the neck, the nails scraping flesh as Relmyna half dragged her back away from the edge. The cooler air, the wind suddenly stilled as with anticipation, helped snap Lahallia back to herself. She managed to regain her footing, stumbling further back as Relmyna pulled on her collar. "Over here by me."

Lahallia straightened, to the relief of her soldiers.

"Honored Daedra, fear not thy abasement! Thou shall be the holy in this temple." Relmyna raised a hand, one of her own flesh atronachs appearing, but silently, as though gagged. "I bind thee atronach to this body, henceforth Gatekeeper of the Shivering Isles." The atronach tipped forward, landing in the cistern. The cistern's contents glowed vividly white. No splash came from the liquid, which moved like molasses to swallow up the flesh, greedily.

Relmyna's voice dropped to soft tones, as though in conversation. "My child. It is time to fulfill your destiny. Stand guard in this land against all those who seek entry not bearing the mark of Sheogorath's favor. You shall know them by the coldness in their minds. A darkness of spirit." Relmyna's breathing became labored as the cistern suddenly solidified once again.

Lahallia blinked, and there stood the Gatekeeper, huge, hulking, and as disgusting as the first. Eyes glowed white behind its iron mask, it seemed to take every ounce of effort the Gatekeeper possessed to stand there, simply _breathing_, slick with slime, wrought with malevolence.

Loud shouts came from the bottom of the stairs leading up to the terrace from the ruins of Passwall. Relmyna grasped Lahallia's upper arm in a surprisingly strong grip. "We should move. And let him do his work," Relmyna sounded exhausted, and showed all the signs of magical overdraw. Lahallia realized she too exhibited similar symptoms—which explained the necessity of Sheogorath's help with the first Gatekeeper. The two mer shuffled past the Gatekeeper. Once they reached the stairs, two Mazken solicitously helped Lahallia up them, and Nanette clumsily assisted Relmyna.

None of the Mazken wanted to, or meant to.

Orphael stepped aside so Lahallia could stand at the center of the overlook, but she stepped further sideways, giving space to Relmyna.

The Dunmer leaned on the railing, without the energy to say something cutting to Nanette.

Knights of Order, obviously making their way back into the Fringe from who knew where, to Lahallia's displeasure, reached the top of the stairs, led by a Dunmer in the garb of a priest of Order, though lacking the headdress. Doubtless the treacherous scumbag whom Sheldon had trusted.

The knights and mer stopped in their tracks, gazing at the new Gatekeeper.

Relmyna's voice, low and hoarse did not reach many ears, though the Gatekeeper certainly heard her. "My child, they are coming. Destroy them! Show them your true power! Show them…" she swallowed, then turned as the Gatekeeper roared. "You may tell his lordship of our success here." Before anyone could say anything, or stop her, Relmyna raised a finger, and jabbed the pad of it against Lahallia's forehead. The spot burned, and Lahallia's pupils pinpointed, then dilated, before returning to normal.

Orphael reached out to steady Lahallia, as Relmyna wordlessly departed, still leaning on her apprentice.

Lahallia watched the Gatekeeper thwart and rout the Knights and their leader. Braziers went flying, spilling their contents, fires snuffing. Slime lay across the terrace, and the Gatekeeper plowed through his opponents with no regard for numbers or weapons used against him.

"Your Grace?" Udico's voice penetrated Lahallia's mental haze, so she realized she had fallen sideways, and was now supported almost wholly by Orphael. "Your Grace?"

"I'm fine…" Lahallia slurred. "Have the garrison pull back to Pinnacle Rock…the Gatekeeper knows his business."

The Mazken saluted promptly, and did not waste a moment, but began carrying out Lahallia's orders, mobilizing the garrison to return through the Gates, and deciding where they should go, now they stood relieved.

Orphael nodded, disturbed by the frailty in Lahallia's voice. "Are you sure…"

"I'm overdrawn…she leeched my magicka…I just need to rest. Rest and eat," Lahallia answered, but made no attempt at bravado. She felt spent, utterly spent. She could not remember the last time she felt like this. _Mortally weary. _

Orphael touched Lahallia's forehead, as though looking for traces of some spell of draining left as a parting shot by Relmyna. "She didn't do anything to me, if that's what you're thinking," Lahallia announced after sifting through her thoughts for a moment. "She's given me a summoning spell…" She shuddered with disgust. "Who would _want_ one of those shambling fleshy hulks?"

Orphael assumed Lahallia meant flesh atronachs, and repressed a grimace. "I don't know." He did not want to know, either.

She twisted to look up at Orphael. "Take me home…please." To anyone else she might have pretended a strength she did not feel, but she did not care just now if she seemed weak or frail. Until her powers restored themselves, she was both.

"Can you walk at all?" The inquiry came gentle, in response to the lack of bravado, or imitation of strength.

"I think so…but not by myself." Orphael wrapped one of her arms around his shoulders, and his around her waist, and so fashion helped her stumble away from the noise of the Gatekeeper ripping a Knight of Order in half, slow-witted cruel enjoyment evident.

Lahallia never felt so grateful for Mazken chariots as she did this time, able to lean on it for support as Orphael drove them back to New Sheoth, not sparing the Hungers a mite. It took a lot of energy to stay standing, and not to lurch about like a rag doll when the vehicle hit rough spots in the road, but Orphael always seemed to have a hand free to help her rebalance if she wavered.

Orphael did not consider himself cruel, but in this instance he wanted Lahallia safely back in New Sheoth, with time to rest before the next catastrophe. He knew without doubt a new Gatekeeper would not stop the Greymarch. The Gatekeeper might slow it down, but not stop it. Order would find another way in, and when it did…things would really get bad.

As if they weren't already.

--SI--

Lahallia stood before Sheogorath, nearly asleep on her feet, still leaning against Orphael as she answered Sheogorath's questions blindly, without any form of conscious thought. The whole world seemed to her half dark already.

Finally dismissed, Orphael gently helped Lahallia stagger to House Dementia, and set the household in an uproar over the Duchess' condition. It would be good for Lahallia to find herself fussed over a bit, but not too much, or she would get snappish.

Lahallia registered she was in her room, the Duchess' chambers, sitting beside Orphael on the edge of the bed. He had one arm round her, and seemed quite at his ease. "What's happening?"

"We're waiting for the kitchen to send you something to drink before you get some rest," Orphael answered quietly, surprised at her sudden return to consciousness. Until now, she had sat asleep, her head lolling against his shoulder.

"Oh," it was all Lahallia could manage, so she shifted into a more comfortable position.

"Comfortable?" Orphael's breath tickled her ear.

"Yes." Comfortable and safe, for however long it lasted. Even though her haze of mind, she knew this respite was just that, a respite. Tomorrow, or in a few hours, the forces of Order would strike again, and strike hard.

They still had Thadon. Little toad though he was, he could still cause her trouble…could and would…

Lahallia drifted off to sleep again, not caring about food or drink, just about sleep.


	51. Chapter 51

Chapter Fifty-One: Concerning Jyggalag

--SI--

"Lahallia? Lahallia?"

Lahallia opened her eyes, and smiled foolishly to see Orphael's bright eyes peering down at her. She remembered vaguely him waking her up so she could drink something down. She remembered him taking the cup from her when she was finished, and remembered him tugging a blanket around her before leaving. That was all, until now.

Her mind felt clearer, better equipped for dealing with trouble, but still tired. Her eyelids continued to feel heavier than usual, but not a though made of lead.

Orphael waved a hand, bringing up the lights. He held a black chalice, which he handed to her, wrapping her fingers around it. The warmth of the metal seeped pleasantly into Lahallia's skin. "You're wanted. Lord Sheogorath won't wait until morning, despite efforts on your behalf." She ought to be allowed to sleep until she woke of her own accord, he thought acidly, though he would never voice such an opinion.

"Thank you," Lahallia threw back her blankets, finding herself wearing a nightgown instead of her clothes. Those lay, clean, over the back of a chair, with her armor clean and polished on a stand beside them. Even her weapons, on a rack upon a wall behind her clothes and armor, were clean and cared for.

As for this ridiculous nightgown—all silk, lace, ansd embroidery—doubtless several lady Mazken, or members of the house had changed her out of her sweaty, bloody clothes.

Orphael would never be permitted to help, which was, perhaps, why Lahallia smirked as she said, "Step out so I can change."

Hardly unexpected, though he gave her a look of teasing disappointment before withdrawing.

Bemused, Lahallia dressed quickly, mentally pulling herself together, taking her hair down, and putting it back up. Doubtless Sheogorath wanted her because trouble was knocking at the Palace gates. Somehow, she did not mind, feeling it all in a day's work. Why shouldn't it be? She was a Duchess, and the empire was at war.

Orphael leaned against the wall, head bowed, arms crossed. He jumped when Lahallia jostled his arm, having slipped silently from her room. "Oi, wake up." She prompted.

"I _am_ awake," Orphael responded with dignity. For a Mazken, resting with eyes closed did not mean dropping off to sleep as it did with mortals.

"If you say so." Lahallia winked cheekily at him.

Well, it was certainly an improvement to the seemingly half-dead duchess he brought back from the Fringe. His superiors, each in turn, raked him over the coals before passing him on to _her_ superior. Fortunately, most of the anger and resentment now focused on Relmyna for having so ill-used the Duchess. Apparently, he was not the only one who thought Relmyna finally overstepped her bounds.

Lahallia strode determinedly towards Sheogorath's Throne room, to find it dimly lit, without Mazken or Aureal guards anywhere in sight. Haskill stood, as ever, to one side of Sheogorath's throne, but uncharacteristically he seemed to radiate tension.

"Well, come in!" Sheogorath boomed.

Lahallia walked into the room, unease filling her mind. The Vision of the Mazken and Aureals striding out of fountains of water in a strange room came back to her. The room looked uncomfortably like this one, but without the tree, or the water in troughs. She bowed low before Sheogorath, shoving the perifpherals aside. She could muse later.

"All prepared for war, I see," Sheogorath noted, leaning his chin in one hand, elbow on his throne, looking bored. "Well, I suppose it's a good thing, but we're not talking about fighting. We're talking about…about…those twiddly little details no one can seem to live without." He pounded the arm of his throne. "Haskill!"

"Facts, your lordship," Haskill intoned.

Lahallia's eyes flicked to Haskill, the question _what are you _screaming in her brain. She could easily fit Sheogorath and Haskill into the dynamic of the Shattered Mind and the Nameless Thinker. Was it likely, possible she was seeing the far-distant past, well beyond the Sight in any other place? Certainly, the Isles had strange effects for her, warping her Sight mostly to Look backwards, into the Past. But so far back…now she considered it with her fully awake, almost untroubled mind, the Visions _had_ felt strange. Was it because they were so very old?

Lahallia looked at Sheogorath, who was eyeing her with the psychotic intensity usually reserved for comments about dismembering his conversational companion. Her lips trembled as she held his golden gaze. "Jyggalag. He wasn't destroyed as everyone who knows of him believes. Where is his stronghold? Where's he sending Knights from?" She did not fear to ask the question, in fact, now seemed to be the time to prove she had kept an eye on the 'twiddly little details'.

Sheogorath smiled, a deranged look. "Haven't you guessed yet?"

Something in Sheogorath's tone chilled Orphael's blood, made his skin crawl. Something was there, in the tone and seeping unseen into the room, something he could not identify, something that should not be there. His arm began to burn again, all along the strange mark, blackened like a burn on his sword hand. It intensified until finally he had to rub it with his other hand.

"_You_ certainly haven't –––––-now-Orphael." Lahallia saw Haskill's lips move, but did not hear the word. She could not even read his lips, but the memory of Mazken and Aureals called by one name, then given another swam into her mind. It occurred to her only now she heard neither name, nor any real detail of any creature save variations of the wings, and whether it was male or female.

"Well, if you're so bent on talking about Jyggalag…let's talk," Sheogorath interrupted.

"I need to know where to find him…" but Lahallia knew she would not like the answer to this necessity.

"Cat's out of the bag on that one, isn't it?" Sheogorath asked, abruptly cheerful again, getting to his feet. "Better fidget while I've still the time or presence of mind," he muttered to himself, before beginning into pace, then stopping to fidget, as though trying to cram a lifetime of fidgets and pacing into a few minutes. "Who puts _cats_ in _bags_, anyway? Cats _hate_ bags. How many," Sheogorath shouted, startling Lahallia and Orphael both into jumping, "Daedric Princes are there? Hurry—this is a test!"

"Sixteen, counting your lordship," Lahallia answered reflexively.

"_WRONG_! You don't win the prize! There was no prize, but if there were, you couldn't have it anyway. I get the prizes, because I'm in charge!" Sheogorath shouted, evidently pleased with his own cunning. "But right in the essentials, I suppose."

Orphael and Lahallia exchanged looks. Wrong _and_ right? _Everyone_ knew there were sixteen Daedric Princes…

Lahallia's suspicions kept her from looking too confused. Even so, it chilled her blood, right down to her toes to consider the concept. One…creature…surrounded by fifteen pairs of Daedric eyes.

"You don't looks so surprised…maybe that's why Azura chose you…didn't think you'd get so far…that you'd get dead before getting this far, Seer and all…but she's wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong! And that's just right. I hate meddlers—especially meddlers in my Realm…and I love it when Azura's wrong."

Lahallia gathered her wits with some difficulty, glad of Orphael's bolstering presence at her shoulder. "Why hasn't Jyggalag showed himself before now? Why is he letting us rout his men at every turn?"

Sheogorath's smile became a leer. "Aren't you _precious_? Do you really not know? Haven't you noodled it all through yet?" he waved his fingers near his head, as though fingering his own brain. "Because _he_ is _me_! _I'm him_! We're a bit of each other, really. I won't _be_ here when he arrives, because _I'll be him_!"

Orphael's expression slipped off as he stared at his master. This news made a whole myriad of things very worrisome indeed—particularly his own vision, or whatever it was in Passwall.

Lahallia sighed, her worst fears confirmed. All she Saw the day before, the hints, the tantalizing crumbs of clues to the great mystery finally came together all at once. Sheogorath was Jyggalag, what the banded-together Princes did to one of their number. Order turned to Madness.

Jyggalag must have been quite the threat to get all the Princes to work together. Daedric Princes could be very petty, and squabbled frequently, but to get them to act together…the thought made her skin crawl.

"Happens every time. The Greymarch starts, Order appears, I become Jyggalag, we wipe out the whole realm." Sheogorath's voice grew quiet, the lucidity of his speech startlingly plain.

This was, Lahallia realized, why Haskill had given them the last tantalizing tidbit about Jyggalag in person, and why he gave the mission to ask Relmyna's assistance. No one was to see Sheogorath truly lucid. It explained everything. The strange behaviors, the growing regularity of time, the trouble the Daedra here had fast travelling. It even explained why the Order Spires seemed to drain madness from the very earth of the Isles.

They _were_ draining it. Draining it and converting it into whatever sort of power Order needed. The realm was not destroying, per se. It was reverting to what it _should be_. Because no imprisonment relying on magicka, even Daedric magicka, could hold forever. Sooner or later, it had to give. In this case, it was _allowed_ to give, and then to tighten back up. Brilliant, absolutely brilliant.

The Mazken allergy to Order dust even made sense—especially with Orphael's fragmented response 'it's a weapon'—whether they were ever Order Knights themselves or not, Order knew how to best cripple the enemy in its own territory. How often had Order dust served to keep the Aureals and Mazken at bay, allowing Order a staging area for the impending invasion?

She _knew_, by her Visions, the Aureals and Mazken, whatever else they were, were not connected to Order anymore. She could trust them not to revert into crystalline behemoths. The Daedra successfully severed them from Jyggalag, used Mehrunes Dagon's influence for change to _change _them into something else, right there on the field of battle…and bound them to the Realm of Madness. A grain of Order remained, giving them lucidity to act as wardens and law keepers.

Nearby, Orphael came to some of the same conclusions, at least, with regards to his single Vision in the Fringe. The memory of Order knights, of Azura standing over him, she and her soldier…it really _was_ memory, though perhaps not his own…

Yet he remained sure it was some splinter of memory dormant until proximity to Order dredged it up. If he was once one of those faceless knights…the idea left him feeling unclean. Those last moments as a Knight of Order before he was reduced to something barely alive, and then resuscitated into something completely different hurt, for he liked what he was now.

Did Lahallia know, or guess?

Given the tightness of her mouth, the nearly stricken look of someone without much hope, or of worst fears confirmed, she must. Hope flickered and died. How was she to fight a Daedric Prince herself? How was she supposed to do it, when she could not trust her Mazken not to turn on her? Was that what would happen? Even as Jyggalag reasserted, so would his _real_ Order knights…for surely the ones serving him now must be only copies, counterfeits to hold the place of the originals…

Yet some instinct did not let this fear sink cold into his stomach, as though some part of him knew his logic had gone awry.

Lahallia caught Orphael out of the corner of her eyes, bowing his head like one defeated. Not quite unseen—though Haskill said nothing of it—she touched Orphael's wrist, sliding her fingers across his hand to grip his fingers. She knew what worried him without much mental exercise, and would take the time to reassure him he was in no danger of turning into an Order knight and lopping her head off.

"Soon, I'll turn into Jyggalag. There's no stopping it."

"How…how much time do we have? When will this change occur?" Lahallia asked, her voice low with distress.

Sheogorath considered, but shook his head, looking tired himself. "Soon. Too soon. I can already feel the change beginning. I feel like I'm not quite here. I'm not over there yet, but I'm not quite here. And I've been having moments of clarity that are quite unlike me. Like now."

"My lord…" Orphael's mouth spouted the words before he really knew what to say.

"Not for long, boy. I'm instructing your Duchess—if _you_ need instruction, _she'll_ give it to you." Sheogorath twitched. "Haskill…" His eyes glittered silvery, silvery and blank, wide open as though seeing things not really there.

Haskill stepped forward, shuffling Lahallia and Orphael out of the throne room. "You must act swiftly…don't waste time, for we have very little left." He shut the door securely, so securely Lahallia could feel the spell he used to do it without touching the door.

Which made her wonder, again, what exactly Haskill was, and how he _really _figured into things.

"Your Grace!" A Mazken guard hurried up, evidently having stood waiting for Lahallia to come out of the throne room. Agitatedly, the soldier gave a perfunctory salute. "While you were in conference with Lord Sheogorath…it's extraordinary. She swore she was sent to you, but…and in the present climate…"

"What? Who?" Lahallia asked sharply, hoping her down-to-business attitude might shave off a lot of agitation. Mazken seemed to respond well to take-charge leaders.

The Mazken did not respond to the sharpness of tone, but nevertheless relaxed, lapsing into precise, succinct sentences. "An Aureal messenger. I've had her sequestered in your audience chamber—as you are the only Duchess in residence, and Lord Sheogorath's orders are he should not be disturbed…I hope I have not acted rashly."

"No, not at all, you've done well." Lahallia picked up her feet, striding the short distance to the audience chamber. To her knowledge, she had yet to hold court here as Syl had done for so long. Then again, she had more on her plate than Syl.

The Aureal stood, the Mazken guard standing close about, as though encircling a creature that might bolt. The messenger, golden, travel-worn and still powered by the urgency of her errand, caught sight of Lahallia striding down the short flight of steps, and appealed to the Duchess before she reached the bottom. "Your Grace! Aurmok Issmi of Brellach has sent me. She requests immediate assistance. They tell me his lordship is unavailable…and…that leaves only you," she finished lamely, offering an Aureal salute, but a half-hearted one.

The Mazken grimaced, shifting like restless raptors.

"It does. Here, let the woman breathe, back you get," Lahallia prompted, stepping through the ring of Mazken to face the Aureal. The Mazken obeyed uneasily, plainly not liking their Duchess so close to an Aureal. "What does Issmi want?" For the Aureal to come to here, to the Court of Dementia, spoke loudly of trouble.

The messenger shook her head, her tawny hair flapping from beneath her helmet as she did so. "Brellach is under attack!" The messenger cried, unable to keep her worry in check. "The forces of Order broke in and routed us! You _must_ go to Aurmok Issmi at once and aid her, else we shall be lost to this world!"

Lahallia's stomach clenched. She was sure she knew whom it was she had to thank for this new development. Thadon. He promised trouble, and was in a unique position to cause it. Why no one knew hehad turned puzzled her, but perhaps he pulled the old 'I've seen the error of my ways!' card. "Orphael, get the chariot ready. I presume you have access to one?" Lahallia referred back to the Aureal scarcely pausing for breath. She had no other option but to go—thankfully she could see a glowing possibility, which she could not afford to risk losing.

_If_ she could help stage a re-taking of Brellach, and the routing of Order in the heart of the Aureal's own main base, she might win their loyalty. And if Sheogorath vanished, she was certain the responsibility would fall to her to do what she could for the Isles. She would need their help, one way or the other, and Aureals and Mazken were so _stubborn_ about not wanting to associate with each other, let alone work together.

Orphael bowed at the note like a whip crack in Lahallia's voice, before hastening to obey her. His worries were by no means abated, but something to do was better than standing about doing nothing.

"I do, Your Grace and can convey you…"

"Orphael is a more than satisfactory charioteer and we are in a state of war. Your Issmi can argue my security arrangements with me when I arrive. Where's my garrison captain? I'm leaving her in charge until I return." Lahallia snapped.

"Thank you, Your Grace," a fierce-looking Mazken woman, shorter than most, answered promptly with a bow.

"Have Pinnacle Rock fortify itself, but have additional troops start here as soon as they may. We'll need them."

"The grakedrig has already done so," the garrison captain answered promptly, following as Lahallia, with the Aureal in tow, following Orphael outside.

Lahallia suspected the last battle would be fought here, in New Sheoth. How long could the people safely stay here? Where could they evacuate to? "Start looking into evacuating the citizenry. If there's any safe place they can go, be ready to start moving them there." There, delegate to the Mazken. They knew the land, and could think up things while she kept Order at bay.

The captain stopped in her tracks, startled by the command. "You don't think that would be necessary…do you, Your Grace?"

Lahallia turned. "This is the Greymarch we're dealing with. I don't know, but better safe than sorry. See to it." Lahallia stepped out of the palace, heading unerringly for where Orphael waited with the Hunger-drawn chariot, on the road out of Bliss.

"What is the situation at Brel…"

"Brellach, Your Grace," the Aureal gave the strange name again, "Aurmok Issmi has taken up control of what little force we have left—mostly patrols in the area, and a few other survivors who fought their way free. She waits for you, prior to making any movements. Please hurry. There's not much time."

Lahallia stepped up into it with Orphael, as the Aureal summoned her own. "Lead on!"

The Aureal inclined her head, drew a whip from within the chariot and gave it a crack. The golden vehicle started off, Orphael in hot pursuit. Neither Daedra spared the Hungers, driving the beasts along in a manner almost cruel, if time was not so pressing.

"You're worried," Lahallia noted, without looking at Orphael. She noticed it more because he seemed reluctant to be too near her, despite the close quarters of the chariot.

"Yes." He swallowed hard, unable to confess the fear lurking in the back of his mind.

Lahallia turned to gaze up at him. "If you tell me what you Saw, I'll tell you what I Saw. I think you might be comforted."

"You don't worry I and your Mazken will turn back into…" he could not finish the sentence, but shook the reins.

"I am certain you won't." Lahallia stepped a little closer to him. "Are you sure you can't talk to me about this?"

She made it a matter of trust, and Orphael knew he had no way to combat that. For her to trust him, he needed to show her some sign he trusted her. And Lahallia did not like discussing her Visions, if she did not have to. What else could he do?

Nothing. He could simply tell his story, and listen to hers. And as she did not seem afraid of suddenly finding herself in a chariot with an Order knight, he raised an arm, looping it around her so she stood in front of him, not hindering his ability to drive, but comfortably close.

--SI--

Author's Notes Appended:

Notes on Aureal ranks—it's not plot-critical, but it may clear up some confusion about Aureal ranks, and their Mazken counterparts. I've had to take liberties because the organization is confusing, between the construction set and what I dug up on the UESP. I have reached what I would call a fair balance. This is not _strictly_ canon. The most notable change is making Aurmazl Zudeh, Auren Zudeh (the opposite number to Autkendo Jansa).


	52. Chapter 52

Chapter Fifty-Two: Matters of Pride

--SI--

Whether by some last exertion of will by Sheogorath, sensing his Duchess was on the move again, or by some supreme effort of will between the charioteers, the miles between New Sheoth and Brellach sped along with uncommon speed. Though not nearly so fast as they ought to have, Orphael had to content himself with any semblance of normalcy. Especially with time so pressing.

Halfway to Brellach, Orphael could say without lying he felt confident again. Lahallia's tale of Visions coincided with the one he had. Moreover, her suppositions seemed quite logical, her insight startling. Who would have thought he had missed so much about his own home plane?

"I think Order simply made copies of what it already knew, duplicates of the original Knights," Lahallia announced as the structure of Brellach, a fortress built into a hillside, loomed ahead. The Aureal turned back to shout this was Brellach, up ahead. Lahallia waved, but otherwise ignored the warning.

The warm air whipped past them, tugging at hair and clothes and making Orphael's allergies to Mania flare up. Only through a supreme act of will could he keen the sneezing at bay, for such a thing would probably result in crashing the chariot and breaking Lahallia's lovely neck.

First Order, now Mania—if he lived through this he swore never to set foot outside Dementia ever again. At least the mushrooms there did not send allergy-inciting spores dancing in the air.

"Sounds reasonable," Orphael examined Lahallia studiously, with a sneaky gleam in his eyes that was all Mazken, but not off-putting. "We don't _really_ have to save the Aureals…do we?" The old animosity of one for the other never completely went away, and even now the somewhat opportunistic nature of the Mazken came out glaringly unabashed.

Lahallia laughed, for the first time in what felt like a long time, which was part of Orphael's intent—though he _had_ half-hopped saving the Aureals would not be necessary. She looked so worried and serious, though, it would never do for the Aureals to see her in such a state. Then _they_ would panic and nothing would be accomplished. Aureals were like chickens, not very bright and inclined to scuttle about when they panicked, agitating any fellow Aureal nearby.

_What_ Lord Sheogorath wanted with that kind of servant Orphael really did not know.

"Yes," Lahallia continued to grin, "we have to save the Aureals. I'm sure the Mazken will rub it in for another hundred years or so, that the Dementia Duchess had to ride to the rescue." They _would_, too. The Mazken would never forget it.

And they would not let the Aureals forget it either, and in any other place this meant civil war. Fortunately, the long-standing hostilities never boiled over, not with things to see to cropping up here and there when things got tense. Certainly fighting over old ruins provided an outlet for pent up aggressions. Look at Cylarne. How long had the ruin remained a bone of contention before she came to tip the scales?

As annoying as she might have found the rivalry upon arriving, it seemed so much a part of her life, it no longer troubled her. Once Mania had a competent leader again, she might change her mind…but she had no intention of hobnobbing with Mania, for any reason.

Orphael slowed the chariot as they started the final approach towards Brellach. Not as good as getting rid of the incompetent Aureals altogether, but he could safely say it was not a bad second best scenario. "At _least_ a hundred years… if we survive the Greymarch." He could not quite stop himself form saying it, but Lahallia did not react to the words except to pat his hand reassuringly.

He forced himself not to think about dying in the Greymarch, only to come back later to a world without _her_ in it, and without any memory of her except a name, a face, and knowledge she was once the Duchess. Yes, it would be something to hold over the Aureal's heads and feel smug about. Wait until the news broke—he hoped it would not break until Lahallia came out victorious.

How could the Aureals even compete for Lord Sheogorath's favor, with such a feather in the Mazken's cap?

Lahallia did not let her worry show on her face, nor did she ask who the Mazken would bicker with, if the Aureals were gone. Surely, neither could be happy without grating on the nerves of the other, though neither would admit it. So like siblings. It no longer seemed surprising to find they were both once the same sort of creature. "Do you think we will? Stop the Greymarch, I mean."

Lahallia did not feel sure they _could_. No one had stopped it yet, after all, not once Sheogorath became Jyggalag, and destroyed his own realm. A Daedric Prince was entitled to do whatever he or she liked to his or her own land. What was one more person fighting the battle against Order, especially the Daedric Prince of order? One sword could hardly make a difference, Duchess' or not.

Who was she to stand up to such a force?

Orphael stopped the chariot short of the Aureals blocking the road. The golden skinned, golden armored warriors fanned out, as though expecting a Mazken attack at any moment. He did not snort, but would have liked to as the chariot came to a halt. These Aureals. Had they no sense left in their heads?

Had they any to begin with?

Foolish, Lahallia grimaced, absolutely foolish. Was there n_ever_ a time to set aside such grudges? Certainly a truce was warranted, while the realm tried to crumble in on itself. "If we don't…you'll give Jyggalag a run for his money," Orphael assured her, as Lahallia stepped down from the chariot. Orphael caught her arm before she could walk around, towards the Aureals, unable to stop this last almost treacherous thought. "This place…it's not worth you dying for. It will come back, and _we _will come back…again, and again. You won't. Can't." And she was irreplaceable. Of all the flock of people he and the Mazken were tasked to guard, there was no question as to which one must survive the impending disaster.

Though with the Fringe in such a state, he was not sure she could get out, even if she tried. If Order won through, there would be few, if any, safe places to hide.

Lahallia patted his hand, glad of the concern, even if it further stirred her own worries. It was reassuring to have someone worry over her—Hermaeus Mora never worried about his Attendants, only grew irritated when something happened to them outside his domain. "We'll see what happens."

Striding up to the foremost Aureal, whom she guessed was Issmi, Lahallia took in the scenery. From here, just behind a row of leafy trees and untamed undergrowth, a winding path of stones led up to Brellach's main entryway. The light bounced off small crystals in the stone, but the fortress still managed to loom, brooding and intimidating.

Issmi strode forward, bowing low, her reddish blonde hair glinting in the sunlight, for she wore no helm. She did, however, carry an elegantly crafted mace, set with amber. A hefty article, Lahallia wondered at the strength it must take to wield such a thing, particularly in a human-sized Aureal. She knew Orphael was probably stronger than he looked—and he looked strong enough—but she never really thought about it before now.

"Aurmok Issmi, Your Grace. Thank you for coming. I apologize for summoning you. The blame is mine…." Issmi's eyes flickered past Lahallia's shoulder, golden eyes narrowing at Orphael.

Lahallia felt Orphael move up to stand at her shoulder, the obedient, protective Mazken bodyguard. It took a great deal of effort not to grin. She could too easily imagine the cocky, so-superior look adopted by most Mazken in the presence of an Aureal. Especially since the Aureals could not argue with his presence. A Duchess had the right to bring her own protection.

Issmi visibly made an effort to ignore the Mazken. "The fact is, Your Grace, we've lost control of Brellach."

Orphael smirked. Trust the Aureals to let something like that happen. Lahallia kicked him in the ankle gently, unnoticed by the Aureals. With the situation as it was, he should not antagonize them. When things were back to normal…fine. Antagonize away.

"Thadon let them in...we had no idea he would turn on us." Orphael gave a sound of derision, clearly asking how they would _not _have known, with the toad turning traitor. "The next thing we knew, we were running for our lives, as Order poured out of the emergency exit. Now they have Aurmazl Staada imprisoned somewhere inside. Our first priority must be rescuing her."

Lahallia did not see why the Aureals needed _her_, unless they simply needed _a leader_—any leader. She had no idea of the inner workings of the Aureal enclave, and a glance at Orphael indicated he neither knew, nor cared how the Aureals organized themselves. Some help _he_ was, Lahallia growled to herself, but with a steadying breath she nodded at Issmi's words.

"What kind of damage can Order do in there?" The answer to this might explain why the Aureals could not simply counterattack. Surely they had had the time, between now and sending their messenger.

The panicked words of the messenger echoed in Lahallia's head: …_else, we shall be lost to this world…_

Orphael shifted, guessing the answer to this. In _this_ alone were the Mazken and Aureals anything alike. They both returned to the Isles from the Waters of Oblivion in the same fashion.

"Ah, Your Grace comes quickly to the worst of it," Issmi answered softly, her golden eyes clouding as she looked at the ground, as though groping for the words. "As you may know, the Waters of Oblivion lead us to the Wellspring, where Lord Sheogorath has given us a place to return to his service. We think…we _fear_ Order might…do something to it," Issmi finished lamely. "If so…"

Lahallia nodded, glad she sent word to Pinnacle Rock to fortify themselves. At least they had no traitor in their midst. Thadon really was taking this killing of Syl far too personally. This explained her presence. If the Aureals failed, _she_ needed to get them out of their fix. "Tell me about Staada, what happened, where we might find her."

"Thadon had her called aside, separating her from the group. He meant to divide our numbers when Order entered, making us easier targets. It worked. They must have imprisoned Aurmazl Staada. If they simply _killed_ her, she could return to us through the Wellspring, so they keep her hostage."

"So the Aureals won't just kill themselves and get behind Order," Lahallia finished.

"If she did die and came back, she could get out the emergency exit. There is one near the Wellspring, the one Order got in through. I don't know how Thadon knew about it, but he did." Issmi shook her head.

This was not what Lahallia expected. From Issmi's words if sounded as if the Aureals let Thadon in. Perhaps she gave them less credit than they deserved.

"We were so scattered, we didn't know what to do. This is something entirely new to us."

"We'll learn from it," Lahallia responded, her eyes following the road up to Brellach. "Get your people ready. We go in as soon as possible."

"They are ready, Your Grace." Issmi shifted uncomfortably.

"What is it?" Lahallia asked tonelessly. This was no time for hesitation, as Issmi already indicated, so what was bothering the woman now?

Orphael found the fidgeting of these Aureals annoying. Greatly. They should stop shifting from foot to foot and speak up already. In all fairness he could not fault their address of Lahallia, but he could not squish his dislike of Aureals. Only _they_ would permit themselves to be driven from their fortress, or be so trusting as to listen to anything a renegade Duke had to say.

"Forgive me for saying so, Your Grace, but I find taking orders from the Duchess of Dementia to be...unsettling. I'm sure my comrades feel the same. You are the only remaining Duchess, a situation quite unprecedented. Normally, you would never be permitted to pass within Brellach."

Lahallia narrowed her eyes, chewing back a retort that this was no time to worry about those sorts of things. If it was, they should not have summoned her from New Sheoth at all. Come to the point already, did the Aureals have to drag everything out, even in a time of crisis?

Seeing Lahallia's jaw working, Issmi hurried on, apology dripping from her every word. "Given the need for swift action, the normal customs shall need to be overlooked for now. We shall be right behind you, Your Grace."

Was that all? Lahallia wanted to massage the bridge of her nose. "Thank you, I shall try to lead you as effectively as your proper leader would…"

"…I'm afraid you misunderstand me, Your Grace," Issmi's expression hardened, her chin lifted proudly. "We will follow you, and do so loyally. We have little other choice. But we will not permit this Mazken to set foot across the threshold of Brellach."

"Ah, I might have expected it," Orphael jeered. Inwardly the words outraged him. Who cared about their silly fortress, when they were putting _his_ Duchess at great risk? Someone had to be there to watch her back, and _they_ had already proved they were incompetent in maintaining the security of their own base. "Is your pride enough to let your Wellspring and your fortress fall into Order's hands? I follow the Duchess, in all things. It is not for you to separate her from her security detail."

Lahallia liked the sound of that, but quashed the not strictly business notion.

"I will cut you down first, Mazken. Forgive me, Your Grace, but I will not permit it to enter, crisis or not." Issmi pursed her lips, sizing Lahallia up, as though unsure her will could stand up against that of the Duchess of Dementia. The Aureals had no use for Syl, while she was alive. Lahallia, as the only Duchess in the realm, was a different matter. They could not afford to write her off as someone 'from the swamps'.

And Syl never seemed to hold the loyalty of her Mazken guards the way Lahallia did.

Lahallia's eyes flashed. "Orphael is my bodyguard, and one more sword than you have now. We have no time for this, as you yourself say."

"He is _Mazken_, Your Grace, and I will not have them spy out our stronghold, to use the information in future acts against us. For you, we make an exception, but not for him. One sword may make a difference, but your help is worth two swords to us. He stays here. I am sorry, but I am decided on this. Aurmazl Staada would agree, I am certain." Issmi crossed her arms, radiating immovability.

"Your Wellspring is being encroached upon as we speak," Lahallia pointed out.

Issmi remained silent, her eyes glittering with resolution.

Turning to Orphael, Lahallia spoke in a low voice so as not to allow the Aureals to overhear her. "They're not going to move, and Lord Sheogorath wants me to handle the matter. I'm sure he'll be more than displeased if his forces to resist Order are halved because of pride…theirs or ours."

"This is ridiculous," Orphael hissed, irritated by the Aureals' stupidity. "They're asking you to go into their lair, fight their enemy, without any support from your own people…"

Lahallia reached up, touching the soft stop between his collarbones. "I know that. A battle is a dangerous place to begin with, but they can't afford to let any harm come to me. I'm trapped between a rock and a hard place. I'll promise you this: if I'm in over my head, I will call you, their caution to the winds."

Orphael grimaced, but could not argue. Lord Sheogorath _would_ be incredibly angry if anything happened to the entire enclave of Aureals, and his anger would fall squarely on Lahallia's shoulders. "Call me if you need me. Don't let their foolishness get you killed." He did not touch her face, because of the watching Aureals, but he did touch her hand. "Come back safely."

Lahallia nodded, grimfaced but resolute. She drew Malice, and turned to face Issmi. "This is pointless." Lahallia strode off, stepping through the Aureals, who parted to allow her to pass.

Orphael remained where he was. His face carried a subtle threat: if Lahallia was to risk her life for soldiers who were not her own, those soldiers better prove grateful.

Lahallia did not turn back for one more look at Orphael, whether to reassure him or herself. She had fought quite often on her own, and it did not do to grow too dependent on him. She sympathized, though, with the frustration of staying behind when someone dear went off to fight.

Someone dear…the words brought a surge of inspiring warmth to her chest.

She had never stood in the position of the one left behind, but she could imagine it very well. She cut across the hills, in the straightest possible line toward the entrance to Brellach, anticipating a hard fight to get in. Order would not leave the doors unguarded, nor would they fail to expect an Aureal counteroffensive.

At least Brellach had no visible windows, which was something, and the Aureals would know the layout, and keep the party from getting cornered or lost, which was another.

Orphael stood in the center of the road, with one injured Aureal for company. The male's arm was bound in a sling, but an ugly wound gouged into his shoulder. What company. Rocks would be better, at least they did not irritate him as much as an Aureal.

And since when was he a babysitter?

"You, Mazken," the Aureal asked abruptly, not looking at him. "Is your Duchess worth her salt?"

Unluckily for the Aureal, Orphael's mood was already disgruntled and annoyed, so he answered in typical Mazken fashion, with additional scorn. "_My_ Duchess didn't let the enemy into Pinnacle Rock, now, did she?" Orphael retorted. "Take Syl and Thadon, double the measure of their combined worth, double it again, and you _still_ will have something that falls short of the Duchess."

How he would _love_ to tell this Aureal—now with his nose in the air, radiating disdain for Orphael and his opinions—the golden creature was once an Order Knight, and let him stew over the fact…but no. That might upset plans, for apparently the Palace—Sheogorath, Haskill, and Lahallia—intended to keep this bit of news quiet. As a faithful retainer, he would keep his silence on the matter.

Besides, the Aureal might panic, and who knew what kind of trouble a panicking Aureal could start?


	53. Chapter 53

Chapter Fifty-Three: The Helpless Army

--SI--

The door to Brellach slammed open, light pouring in, golden and warm into the chill dimness of Brellach as Lahallia and the Aureal assault party stepped in, ready for a fight the moment they crossed the threshold.

They found nothing, for the moment, but shadows. The complex, as far as she could see, did not meet Lahallia's expectations. She expected gold ornaments, red Mania hangings—these at least were present—white marble walls and fluted pillars, and fountains. All in all, something to match the atmosphere of Mania outside, or which appealed to her sense of what Aureals and art ought to be. A plush, comfortable place for the Aureals to live, work, and rest, the aesthetics of which touch a person's artistic appreciation.

The whole room and the rest of the complex, Lahallia supposed, looked so utilitarian she thought, for a moment, of certain vaults in the Apocrypha, though there were obvious differences. The high, vaulted ceiling disappeared into darkness. The walls and floors were straight and smooth, the architecture angular, all seeming to give the living beings within a sense of smallness. It was not a comfortable-looking place, but one of rigid discipline, an army stronghold without comfort or room for complacency. The strength of the residents seemed echoed in the architecture. If the Mazken headquarters was anything like Brellach, Lahallia could see why they called it Pinnacle _Rock. _

She had only a moment or two to take all of this in, before Knights of Order at the end of the short hallway leading to the entrance reacted to the appearance of Aureals and an Altmer. Lahallia led the charge—to the surprise of the Aureals—throwing herself into the battle with spell and sword.

Perhaps it was the Isles working on her, but the sudden need to prove herself to the Aureals, to set herself up as a force to be reckoned with, overtook her. She could not win their loyalty, Duchess of Dementia that she was, but she could win their respect. At this unassailable conclusion, she determined that was what she would do.

Earn their respect, earn it and keep it. She would need it, if things got much worse, and until Jyggalag was stopped…she cut the thought off. Order Knights first, everything else later.

As soon as the Knights lay dead, Issmi spoke up, wiping her forehead as she did so. "We should head for the Wellspring—or split up along the way…" Motioning into the darkness the Aureal stretched and flexed, working cricks out of her spine and shoulders.

"No, we stay together," Lahallia interrupted, taking stock of how many Aureals had taken injury. So far none, but she could not count on this staying true for too many more fights. Injuries were part of a battle, even here, and whether they could return through the Wellspring of not, injuries could take an Aureal out of the fight. Fortunately, the Knights did not seem such overwhelming opponents. Perhaps the strength of Mania was too concentrated here for their comfort, the reverse of Xeddefen.

"Your Grace," one of the other Aureals interrupted, albeit timidly, "we can cover more ground if we split up." She gestured to the sheer vastness of the complex—Lahallia had to wonder if the whole thing was as big as this first room implied. In the Isles it was hard to be sure of anything.

"Yes, and you're easier to kill in a small group. We can't afford to waste fighters, few as we are. Continue, Issmi," Lahallia returned here attention to the Aureal in command, trusting her to keep subordinates comfortably in check.

Issmi exchanged a glance with her subordinate, which Lahallia did not miss, but chose not to comment upon. Issmi hated to admit it, but the Duchess' ruling was the same one she would have argued on any other day, but the habit of taking the opposing stance to Dementia was so ingrained that going along with the Duchess' perfectly logical argument gave her a headache.

"It's likely we will come across Aurmazl Staada if we head straight for the Wellspring," Issmi gestured in the Wellspring's general direction with her mace. Emergency or not, she did not like the idea of letting the Duchess of Dementia into _that_ place. The Wellspring was as sacred to the Aureals as all but a few places, and no one from Dementia ought to see it, or even hear the pleasant trickle of it as its waters moved about the fortress. "We can clear out the Knights as we go…there is a possibility the Knight have not managed to erect a Crystalline Spire here."

"I don't think they have. All the Spires we've seen so far were preexisting structures. Very likely this is simply a detachment let in by conventional means. I don't think Thadon's even here any longer—he would know the foolishness of staying, with a counteroffensive immanent. Even a counter launched by Lord Sheogorath's forces, rather than the Aureals."

By which Lahallia meant 'the Mazken', and the Aureals knew it. A seed of gratitude in the Aureal hearts that no Mazken were present shot up and began to put out leaves. "Very well, we'll make for the Wellspring…hopefully Order won't have done anything to it, yet…" Shaking her head, Issmi cut the thought short. She could not imagine it, she _would_ not think about that.

Lahallia did not like to think of the imbalance losing the Aureals would cause for the Isles. Even places where Madness was the rule still had rules to follow, and usually very old ones centering on keeping the Plane from ripping itself apart. Even if she did not know of such laws—and she had no idea what the specifics were for any Realm, except those recently reordered by events in the Empire--she suspected the whole place hinged on an unusually delicate balance, since this balance was what Order attacked when frontal assault failed.

It was easier to conquer a land, to Order it if it was falling apart at the seams.

The Aureals knew their way through Brellach as well as Lahallia knew the colors of her eyes. Issmi led the way, Lahallia only a half step behind her, Malice drawn, a shock spell sizzling readily in her hand. The only good thing about the Knights in Brellach were their numbers: relatively few, compared to the tides Lahallia had fought elsewhere.

The possibility existed, however, that many were gathering at the Wellspring, preparing to do whatever they planned to do to sabotage the Aureals. The possibility also existed this was a feint by Order, to draw attention away from whatever scheme or preexisting plan percolated where she could not see it.

As the party worked their way into the fortress, Lahallia found the fountains she expected—though not in the mode she hoped for—as well as waterways carved into the floor. The smell of clean water, even now glittering darkly golden in its pathways, filled the air with healthful scent which cleared the lungs and eased tired muscles.

"Blast this darkness," Issmi waved her hand, the lights overhead glowing into full light like rising suns, flooding the cold gray walls with clear light. It did not warm the atmosphere, except to reveal the water as dark, with only hints of gold, like amber and darkness made liquid.

Quite unlike the brilliant fountain from which Haskill had called the Aureals and Mazken. It had to be Haskill, Lahallia's instincts screamed the second presence was indeed Haskill, beyond any shred of reasonable doubt—though the sheer obviousness of it made her uncomfortable. Obvious things, in her experience, tended to be blinds for something else.

Haskill who never really seemed to fit in the Isles, and yet…did. This raised questions, too, questions she suspected with answers considered above her, which were too distracting in a situation like this one. She needed her wits. She still _wanted_ answers.

"Issmi!" The low-pitched voice called from ahead, with the clarity of a struck gong of perfect pitch. "Issmi! Up here!" Lahallia and all the Aureals looked up. A raised level of Brellach loomed before them, and behind a wall, the voice issued. Lahallia strode forward, realizing the sheet of wall was actually Order crystal. A perfect prison for an Aureal.

"Aurmazl?" Issmi hurried forward at a spring. Lahallia followed, more worried about Knights lurking at the head of the stairs. Her fear was justified. Releasing her shock spells he grabbed Issmi by the back of her armor, ignoring her fingernails scraping the Aureal's skin, jerking the woman back. Using Issmi's momentum to wing herself around, Lahallia parried a solid blow from the Order Knight standing sentry where Staada could not see him.

The Aureals charged up the stairs, trapping the Knight between their split force, and within moments he fell, not to rise again. Lahallia looked about. Facing the imprisoning case of Rider Crystal was a large chime, enormous, and apparently without purpose, except for decoration.

Issmi slammed the crystal with her mace, trying to shatter it. The crystal did not crack, or even chip under the solid blow.

"You can't do it that way!" Staada barked, shouting to be heard over the noise Issmi made in her efforts to smash through the crustal. "I've tried! Use the chime!"

Lahallia, closest to the chime as she stood examining it, turned Malice and struck the chime with the hilt, once, twice, three times, each strike louder than the last, until the sound of it filled the hall. It hummed in her bones and rang in her ears as though shaking her to see whether it could shake her apart.

Hairline fractures appeared in the crystal with the first strike, then it began to crumble. With the third strike it shattered completely, falling to the ground in a rain of silvery-dull chips. The sound died to a melodic, metallic sound and vanished as though stifled by the darkness.

Staada stepped free, her sword in hand. The Aureal had the bearing of a proud woman, but not one without reason. The angles of her face gave her a tough look, someone not used to anyone disobeying her orders, someone who could maintain the rigid discipline Brellach seemed to exhale. Her golden eyes swept the assembly, counting it, before falling on Lahallia, with her Mazken armor and her black robes beneath.

Lahallia did her best to radiate quiet willfulness and strength as she took in Staada's appearance, and the elegant armor, with its feathery motif. It must have worked, for Staada shifted like a nervous raptor before speaking as neutrally as an Aureal could. "You have my thanks for freeing me, mortal but...who _are_ you? I've not seen your countenance before now."

"I am Lahallia Kiranni, Duchess of Dementia, acting in place of the Ruled of Mania." Were the situation not so tense, between the Duchess of Dementia and Order both present in the Aureal stronghold, Lahallia would have laughed aloud at the absurdity of the commander's expression.

Staada's eyes widened, and to save herself any gross breaches of etiquette, she dropped to one knee. "Your Grace, I beg your pardon."

"Not at all, this is no time for the extreme formalities, Aurmazl. Your Wellspring is in danger, and I do not think we should linger." Lahallia appreciated the courtesy, but this really _was_ not the time for it. Her sense of humor subsided again, though she suspected she would laugh later—if she was alive to do so, of course. Once again, she notices the conspicuous absence of the bolstering force of the events at Cylarne.

She had Sheogorath's blessing at the time—not so now, nor ever again until the realm successfully repulsed Order once and for all. But if this happened more than once…if it was one of those inviolate rules which kept the Isles together…

She forced herself not to consider it. Even crazy Princes knew the rules of the realm. If this was a scheme to _save _the Isles, there was no question of destroying them in the process—except the Ordering, but gven the context of 'destruction'…

Lahallia shook her head. Now was not the time for such Attendant legalizing.

Staada got up, nodding. "That is so. They are trying to sever our link with the Isles. If they do…" she did not need to finish the sentence.

Lahallia shivered, but not at the words. The cold air of Brellach—why did they keep it so cold, or was it Order's doing?—crawled over her sweaty skin. "We're in luck, the Order Knights are not many—or have not been so far," Lahallia announced.

"Wait, where is Thadon? Have you seen him? That traitorous coward!" Staada's expressing became fiercer as she gripped her sword, eyes narrows as if she were imagining taking Thadon's head from his shoulders in one swift stroke.

"Not here. He's out of his mind, but not completely stupid. He'll have fallen back, his part here finished. He's valuable to Order, at the very least." Lahallia _wished_ she was wrong, but she did not think she was.

"Hmph. We'll find _that_ little weasel, sooner or later," Staada's tone conveyed she always felt Thadon was inept, and barely capable of consciousness, much less treason. The appearance of the latter seemed not to have changed her poor opinion of him, it only made her determined to remove him from existence.

"Take us to the Wellspring—and tell me more about it while we walk," Lahallia commanded.

Staada gave an abbreviated bow, motioning with her sword the path they should take. Lahallia easily matched the Aureal's long strides, though Issmi seemed to have trouble keeping up. "The Wellspring of the Aureals links us to this realm, where we return to the world from the Waters of Oblivion. You know this much, I'm sure." Lahallia nodded, wondering if this was all the Aureals knew about it. "If Thadon helps Order sever that link...my kind will be annihilated. Such a thing has never happened, so I can't even guess what that entails. I…am yours to command, Your Grace."

Hmm…this must be one of Thadon's plans, because it sounded like a thing which threatened the basic laws. It must also be a distraction, eating up time until Jyggalag could re-manifest, a distraction he did not expect would do any good in the long run except to keep competent individuals very busy.

Lahallia could not tell if the unease in Staada's tone was distaste for saying the words, or simply discomfiture in pledging herself to the Duchess of Mania. Still, it was something. "Thank you, Aurmazl Staada."

After moving further on in relative silence, defeating a few Order Knights in the process, Staada spoke up again. "The Wellspring is the heart of Brellach; follow the waters to reach it." She gestured with her sword to the trenches of water flowing on both sides of the hall. "Don't step in it…"

Lahallia nodded, grimly amused. "I imagine that would be quite rude."

"These floors get slippery when wet. It's no good to drag a foot and let a Knight kill you because you fell and dropped your sword." The floors were not quite smooth, as Lahallia originally thought they were. They had some texture, and therefore some traction against boots, but not much.

"No," Lahallia agreed, almost liking this Aureal, "that would be embarrassing."

--SI--

After moving quickly through another level, down to a third, the Aureals suddenly stopped, as though struck by powerful blows. Issmi collapsed, falling as though her life was simply snuffed out. Staada gasped, her sword clanging to the ground as it slipped from her hand. Her golden eyes, wide with real terror, found Lahallia's pale face. "The Wellspring…" her voice came out as a hoarse whisper, as though she fought for every word, breath _second_ of continued existence. "They…They've stopped it up. You...you _must_ make it to the Wellspring, and let the waters flow..." Staada's eyes rolled, as suddenly she ceased to be a flesh and blood Daedra, turning into to something stone, or Order crystal.

So had the other Aureals, luckily none of them shattering, leaving Lahallia quite alone in the dark and silence.

Investigating closer, Lahallia found them neither stone, nor Order crystal, like very dark amber carved into perfectly faceted Aureals, adorned with golden armor. A compromise between the Order Knights they once were, and the Aureals they were _now_. Such things always left traces, subtle traces.

For a moment Lahallia debated summoning Orphael _right now_, but refrained, following the water, now running low in the troughs, but still moving.

Lahallia finally reached the turnoff, which led into the most massive room she had yet seen. It looked so startlingly like the Wellspring of the Mazken, seen only in Vision, she nearly gasped. If she had no bearings she would have thought it the exact same room. The pool from which the Aureals would drag themselves when they returned was encased fully by Order crystals, add attended by an Order Priest. Around him were…she took a moment to count them up. Seven, yes, seven Knights.

And no sign of a proper Spire, so nothing to overload—this _was_ a plot to waste her time, she thought savagely. Still, seven, eight counting the priest, against one were not good odds. Eight on two still left Orphael and herself outnumbered four to one.

But she _could_ call a flesh atronach. Who knew what kind of havoc a disgusting creation like that could wreak against Order? And perhaps they would be weaker here than anywhere else, as already hinted, where the power of the Isles was so concentrated, concentrated enough to—usually—call the Aureals back from the Waters of Oblivion.

Tall pillars dominated the room, and raised daises in the corners, all overlooked by a massive statue of Sheogorath, reaching out to the Wellspring. Plenty of cover, which meant she might have miscounted the number of priests and Knights.

Lahallia flexed her hand, a miasma of magicka pulsing before resolving itself into a flesh atronach. "Rend the flesh of my enemies." The words came like instinct to her lips. The atronach groaned, and charged into the battle, flailing and swinging powerful fists. It had no tactics, but Lahallia felt no discomfort at using it as Order fodder. Not when it killed two knights and injured the priest.

The priest, however, knew someone had to be about to conjure the atronach, someone not an Aureal. In moments three of the remaining Knights started looking for her. Lahallia fell back, back to the head of the hallway, so they could see her when they rounded the bend, but so they also had to cover some ground to _reach_ her.

Better to fight three in an enclosed space than five and the priest all at once.

For a moment she thought she might try the Apocrypha's Trap, seeing as how the Daedric Prince these things served was not yet a present power…but to her surprise the found the spell vanished from her mind, as though she never had it. She could not even identify where her catalogue of the Shivering Isles now reposed. She could not even _guess_ where it was.

Ties were severing, maybe already severed. At the very least, she was an Attendant no longer, without the rights and privileges (_were_ there ever any?) thereof.

It unsettled her less than she expected, though she wrote the lack of unsettlement off as a response to her current danger. Lahallia dredged her mind, raising her hands. She still had some of the knowledge gained in the Apocrypha, fortunately, and elemental spells came easily to her. Spells from the School of Destruction usually came easily to Altmer, and there were rare invocations in the Apocrypha.

In a timeless place, there was always time for study, if not much for practice.

Raising her hands as the Knights rounded the corner Lahallia took deep breath. The words sizzled, the sounds lost in the noise of fire. Her hands burned but did not blister, her lips cracked but did not bleed. Her blood burned in her veins, and her eyes seemed to leak tears of oily heat. As though she were fire personified, for one moment during which a lesser mage would have been incinerated on the spot by the power of his own spell, Lahallia's mind emptied except for the roar of flames, the heat of them, the destructive force of _fire_ in its most primal form.

The spell exploded violently from Lahallia, filling the hall, scorching the walls, incinerating the wall hangings in a trice. Her nose, mouth and eyes all burned, her palms grew sore, but she did not drop Malice. If she did, it would melt, but as long as it was considered a part of her, it would remain safe if uncomfortably warm to the touch.

Lahallia fell to her knees, tired, but not spent as the flames burned themselves out, leaving a heavy smoke coiling in the air and a few cinders drifting lightly. A powerful spell, yes, certainly sloppy, but most efficient. She forced herself back to her feet, knowing the inferno in the hall would call the others. She made herself invisible, as the other two Knights came charging around, finding their comrades in an empty, scorched hall, resembling melted glass rather than crystalline constructs.

As the Order Knights looked around, perplexed and not magically inclined themselves, Lahallia recovered herself enough to think out a new plan. The wounded priest she could manage, but these two… Clenching her fists her cover dropped as the shock spell, doubled in strength as she cast two spells concurrently, sizzled and popped, before she sent both arcing in a blinding steak of light to slam into the Order Knights, knocking them back against the far wall.

Powerful spells like the inferno were inadvisable to use back to back. One moment of lapsing concentration and it would backfire gleefully.

One Knight fell back, disabled as the first spell slammed into him. The other, hit with the weaker spell, collapsed the ground, moving feebly. Lahallia raised a finger. With her last iota of magical force, she froze the Knight to a sparkling husk, and strode forward to finish off the injured priest the old-fashioned way.


	54. Chapter 54

Chapter Fifty-Four: In Brellach

--SI--

Lahallia yanked Malice free from the Order Priest, before jerking him away from the Ordered-over Wellspring. Despite her initial expectation, the crystals trapping the water—which had, by this time, ceased to flow altogether—had not shattered. She expected they would, and now all was safe, she sat down to think. Her left hand seared with pain, scorched by her flame spell. A small price to pay for unleashing that sort of power, but it still hurt, and she had not the magical resources to heal it. Still, it was not the worst burn she ever took.

The crystal looked more like glass than crystal, though it did not respond to a cursory slam with Malice's hilt, or to a frustrated kick with the heel of her boot. The latter served no purpose except to make her heel ache. When had kicking something _ever_ made it work? Or cooperate…?

Lahallia pivoted, as though hearing someone sneak up on her. In the corners of the room hung massive chimes. At first, in the shadows, she took them for pillars. Now, with the single shining light over the Wellspring illuminated to its brightest, she could see what she missed.

The pillars were chimes, yes, intricately designed, massive and probably sonorous.

Not unlike the chime which shattered Staada's crystal cage. Lahallia glided over to the chime nearest to her, mounting the short flight of stairs to the dais before the massive instrument. It would make sense to have something like this—maybe for when the Isles were dis-Ordered? She clanged it several times with Malice's hilt. The resonate sound boomed too loud in her ears, but the Order crystals did not crack.

Scowling, she strode back to the Wellspring, the aches and pains of the assault on Brellach beginning to catch up with her. She took no wounds, except for her burn, which now felt as though it had engulfed her wrist up the elbow, though the sleeve and bracer remained undamaged. She took the protective implement off, rolling back her sleeve off to find the skin about her wrist livid and red. The back of her hand wept lymph, as the damage grew worse.

Latent spell-damage. So much for a flawless performance. Lahallia hissed in pain, rolling her sleeve up above her elbow. She did not want any dark fibers from her clothes getting caught in the weeping wound, but she stopped. She also did not want the Aureals fussing over it, if they could find it in themselves to fuss over the Duchess of Dementia. She would ask Orphael to look at it later. He would not mind, he would most likely prefer to do it himself, rather than leave it to an Aureal.

She could not remember the last time she suffered latent spell-damage, though it should not surprise her to find it. Not when using such a spell, and one she could not practice religiously…

This was not the time, she shook herself, to wander in her wits.

The Wellspring was not unchanged as she first thought. Upon closer inspection, dozens of hairline cracks appeared in the crystal encasing the waters. On another flight of inspiration Lahallia strode up to the first chime and slammed it with Malice's hilt, before working her way around the room, each of the others in turn.

The sounds of the chimes seemed to gather in the center of the room, neither fading, nor dying as one by one another voice was added. The sound seemed to go right through Lahallia, until she too, resonated with it, almost unable to strike the last chime.

As the final note of the final chime died, the crystal casing shattered, the shards vanishing as they hit the ground. The Wellspring spurted up from its central pool—which Lahallia suspected was built over an actual spring for the Waters of Oblivion, changed and filtered by whatever course it took from surrounding the Isles to here—gushing into the troughs and fountains previously dried out.

Lahallia sat down, hunching over with the raised edge of the Wellspring digging into her back, waiting for the Aureals to come, or for her powers to come back. Her arm below the shoulder ached, throbbed and pulsed with every heartbeat, the skin burned and the cloth of her sleeve felt so rough she was sure it would scrape the damaged flesh bloody.

Staada, at the head of the small unit of Aureals who came in with Lahallia, entered the Wellspring room, sword out, a magelight bobbing at her shoulder. "Your Grace?"

"I'm here." Lahallia rose to her feet, sheathing her sword and trying not to draw attention to her injured arm, despite the fact she carried her bracer in one hand. She would not, _could not_ put that thing back on. The pain finally reaching a consistency in area and intensity left her certain it was as bad as it was going to get.

"The hall…?" Staada gazed at Lahallia. Apparently the damage, too, grew more visible as the traces of magical burnt themselves out. Clumsy spellwork, but the knowledge left Lahallia certain she should not attempt this again as a spur of the moment attack. She might incinerate herself next time.

"That was me," Lahallia answered tiredly. "Eight on one aren't good odds."

Staada's eyes bugged. "By yourself?"

"Well, my Mazken bodyguard was not permitted in Brellach's halls. I didn't have much choice." Yes, rub it in, why didn't she? Staada and Issmi both squirmed a little here under Lahallia's arch, cool tones.

"Your Grace…" but there was respect, deep-rooted, in Staada's voice. "It-it's late, Your Grace…too late for you to return to New Sheoth…please, you must stay here tonight." She bowed hurriedly, to hide both her embarrassment over being the indirect cause for the necessity of such extravagant spellwork—she could tell it truly was extravagant—and the unease at her sudden invitation. She could justify it in several very good, unarguable ways…but Lahallia was _still _the Duchess of Dementia_. _

Lahallia understood what a tremendous compliment this was, but did not want to take it. "It can't be _that _late…" Imagine spending the night in a stronghold full of nervous Aureals.

"It is, Your Grace. Aureals are already rooting out any remaining Knights, and our injured male, left with your Mazken, has been brought back. Night fell to long ago, but it's dark as pitch," Issmi put in gently, wondering where Lahallia lost track of time, before reminding herself the Altmer would not be so keenly aware of such things as an Aureal.

"Please, Your Grace…if Order should ambush you in the night…" Staada implored.

Lahallia sighed, making up her mind on several counts. "Very well, as it's important to you." She knew the 'don't disrupt Sheogorath's plans' argument waited in the wings, and around here, it was not a subject for argument. It was a tool to gain acquiescence.

"Thank you, Your Grace. We'll send runners to New Sheoth to precede you, and carry word of your victory here. I am sure Lord Sheogorath will be pleased with your efforts."

Lahallia nodded, wishing she had argued the point and set off. These Aureals could live on words alone.

--SI--

When a messenger arrived on his way to New Sheoth, he had a message for Orphael, who stood right where the assault party left him, waiting and prowling anxiously. Several times he'd strode halfway up to Brellach's front door with the intent of going in after Lahallia, but each time he returned to his vigil, and his Aureal company. Not that they spoke much. Not at all, if the truth was told.

Word that Lahallia was to stay overnight in Brellach, and travel at first light did not distress Orphael. In fact, the Aureals condescended to send him a tent and supplies so as to make the night pass tolerably. Once inside the red and gold silk tent—how could anyone sleep surrounded by such garish colors?—Orphael waited wioth greater patience, expecting Lahallia to summon him. She would of course. She did not like the Aureals stubborn pride interfering any more than he did.

He had not sat long after exchanging his armor for more 'normal', not to mention more comfortable, clothes, before he felt the gentle tug of Lahallia 'calling'. He stood up, closing his eyes. He appeared in a swirl of Dementia-green light in a room not unlike one he might see in Pinnacle Rock. Lahallia sat on a padded bench cut into the wall, dressed in her usual robes, now long and elegant, without the armor. This hung on a stand in the room. But her hair hung loose, for once, long and pale, almost luminous in the dim light, nearly to her waist. No wonder she wore it put up as she did.

"I take it you were successful," Orphael prompted when the silence stretched.

"Yes." Lahallia got to her feet, aching. Her arm screamed in discomfiture, sticky inside her sleeve.

Orphael spared her from having to bring up injuries, seeing the fingers of her left hand trembling, and the way she carefully held it away from her body—though she was obviously unsure how to ask for assistance in healing the damage. "Were you hurt at all?" Squinting at it, the flesh looked redder than it should be.

"Yes, I burned my arm." Lahallia took hold of her sleeve, but Orphael stopped her from rolling it up.

"Let me." He pushed on Lahallia's shoulder until she sat back down. Once she obeyed the steady pressure on her shoulder, he knelt beside her feet, the better to see the injury.

Lahallia held out her trembling arm. Carefully to touch the wound as little as possible, they disentangled Lahallia's arm from the sleeve. Peeling the cloth revealed the large burn, nasty and raw. The whole expanse wept, and now bore dark fibers clinging to the damaged flesh from her sleeve. The sleeve itself was stiff to the touch where the lymph seeping into it had dried.

"What happened?" Orphael looked up, startled at the damage, mostly because the burn pattern indicated the injury came from one of her own spells. He never expected to see this kind of elementary miscast on Lahallia. She was too well-versed, well-practiced, in the arcane arts.

As Lahallia narrated the adventure, feeling far from foolish, Orphael closed his long-fingered hands about the wound, care and caution interwove with the spell to knit her damaged flesh back to health. With this sort of care, she would not even scar, not if he could help it, and burns were sometimes tricky. At least now he understood whys he had not done it herself—she probably could not manage a snowball, let alone tricky healing.

The cool seep of power, and the lessening of pain and discomfiture made Lahallia sigh in relief, the tense rigidity of her posture seeping away.

"You're lucky to be alive," Orphael admonished, once Lahallia finished speaking, but while he was still mending her arm. "You should have called me." At least she had not let the Aureals heal the injury. They would not have cared about scarring. Such things were fine for soldiers—for some the more the better—but not for a Duchess.

At least, not _his_ Duchess.

"They would have executed you, if they found you there, and you know it," Lahallia answered, tiredness and relief giving her voice an edge of wry humor. She would have liked to have him then, which was why she had him here now.

Orphael sighed, mending the rest of her injury in silence.

"Don't worry about it. I survived…and you're here anyway."

Orphael could not entirely repress the grin which spread over his face. "That would put an Elf amongst the Grummites."

Lahallia's laugh contained a single note of humorlessness, remembering a Grummite cleaver headed straight for her. "Yes…I suppose it would…" She certainly had not taken that early attempt on her life very well. Not well at all.

Orphael let the spell go, yet he continued to hold Lahallia's arm, well, whole, and white as the rest of her. Her sleeve changed, almost between blinks. Such things in the Isles rarely escaped the complete notice of the Daedra in the realm.

"I should have thought of that earlier," Lahallia decided, as the sleeves became loose, slit to the shoulder, and sheer. They certainly left her arm much more accessible, and the power needed to do it was minimal. Turning her arm this way and that, though without removing it from Orphael's cradling hands, she examined the results. "That is one of the best healing spells I think I've ever seen…not a single spot of scarring."

Orphael's smile grew lopsided, a look which left Lahallia feeling distinctly warm around the neck and throat. It was such a mischievous parody of a grin, almost crooked, but not quite. Which suited a Mazken perfectly, now she came to think of it. Did Aureals _ever_ smile? No, because they had no discernible sense of humor.

"Thank you for mending the burn," Lahallia said when the silence stretched. It was not uncomfortable, but she knew her stomach was about to start growling. _That_ was embarrassing.

"You look tired," Orphael set Lahallia's arm in her lap, in order to brush a hand across her cheek.

Despite enjoying the gesture, which Lahallia met unflinching, she could not help thinking it somewhat out of context for a Mazken to be so…something like sweet, but not. Ignoring the swell of Vision accompanying the touch of bare skin, she squeezed his shoulder. "I am. The spell took a lot out of me."

"You're lucky it didn't burn you to a cinder," he did not bother hiding his relief it had not. "Where did you find that?"

Lahallia got to her feet. Now her arm no longer hurt, she felt much better equipped to handle the present crisis. Even the crisis of decoration in this room. "You _know_ where I found it." She did not want to mention the place, not here. Especially not when, more and more often when she thought she might have to go back, it seemed less like a library of boundless knowledge and more like a coffin.

Perhaps there was something to Orphael's assertions, but Lahallia was just stubborn enough not to want to admit it.

Orphael caught the tone and the implications. Without a reason to start a fight—certainly he had no intention of agitating her for the sake of 'fun'—he let it lie.

Lahallia dragged a hand across his back as she padded barefooted to the other side of the room. Orphael took in the room, outwardly ignoring the caress. Lahallia stood out in the room, but not because of her paleness, or because of her sharp contrast with her black dress, glittering Dementia green at the hem. She stood out against the painful gray bareness made the place unsociable, more like a prison than a guestroom. He could see why his company was wanted.

Staying in a place like this alone would give anyone nightmares.

The angular walls, despite their vivid red hangings gave the place a stern look, like a barracks. No rugs on the floor protected feet from the conscientiously hatch-marked floor, otherwise smooth. How could a person sleep with the Mania seal emblazoned everywhere? He would have bet money this place served as someone's office, hastily repurposed.

The Aureals had, before Lahallia called Orphael, left supper—certainly more than one person could eat. Lahallia wondered if Staada did not suspect there was a Mazken in Brellach, and was conveniently steering well clear—and having her subordinates steer clear—of Lahallia's quarters as a show of thanks for what she had done for them. Thankfully, it was also a meal catering to a drained mage's appetite.

With so many rules being bent to allow her to stay here the night, what was one more? At least, as long as she did not let Orphael wander around, and she did not intend to.

Dinner, however silent, left them fairly mellow of mood and comfortable in the shell of companionship between them and _this room_. Lahallia really would have preferred to travel by night. Orphael cast an arm about Lahallia's shoulders, pulling her the last few inches towards him as they shared the bench in the alcove where he first found her. "How very ill-mannered, leaving the savior of the Aureals in a room like this, all by herself. They would have done better to invite you to supper, and let you be on your way."

Sometimes she had to wonder if the Mazken could not read minds. It certainly seemed so sometimes. "They're worried about security." Lahallia shrugged, setting her plate aside.

"I don't think so. _I'm_ here. Security enough." All spoken in true Mazken fashion, which made Lahallia fight to keep a straight face. She could not argue with this point. She felt safer with the one Mazken than in the fortress of Brellach with most of the Aureal population.

"_You_ are a special case." Lahallia did not bring up her suspicions about Staada. If they were true, she thanked the Aureal silently. If not…well, then security was lax, though she could scarcely complain. The sound of another voice made the room seem less spare and utilitarian. She took Orphael's empty plate, and set it with her own on the floor, out of reach of any staying feet.

"How special?" Orphael got to his feet, smirking catlike at her. He liked the sound of that

Lahallia's stomach fluttered as she leaned on the table for a moment, debating what answer to give. "Very."

Orphael's arms slipped around her, his fingers lacing over her stomach. "How do you feel?" She sagged against him, tiredness pervading her posture. He knew enough about her to know she would not let her own weakness show so plainly before very many people. Probably no more than one could count on two hands.

Even when she came back to the palace nearly asleep on her feet, she tried to make it seem as though she was not—though she succeeded in fooling no one. His ears still rang from the raking over the coals he got about permitting such overextension on the Duchess' part, but only when he thought back that far. It was worth it, he thought, bowing his head to rest his chin on her shoulder.

"Stay here." Orphael's breath tickled her pointed ear, the persistent, ever-present quest to have her promise not to leave the Isles returning when she had not expected it. He almost got the answer he wanted, too.

Lahallia force herself to give an incredulous smile, lulled with security as she was. If ever there was someone to trust, someone she could let touch her broken heart, so long buried in dusty seclusion, that person was Orphael. Everything he said, everything he _did_ smacked of something she did not want to name, for fear of ruining it.

"So, where does this leave us?" Orphael asked.

Lahallia did not answer right away. "I'm not sure I follow."

She did not play coy well, though she folded her hands over his, twisting their fingers together in complicated knots.

Well, he could play coy enough for two. "Shall I call you just 'Duchess', then?"

Lahallia did not like the sound of the title when he said it like that—though clearly he was simply teasing her, but gently. She was not now, nor was she ever 'Your Grace'—unless as a perfunctory courtesy in the presence of others. "Mmm…no…"

"Then how shall I call you? Certainly by name is too…familiar…for a Mazken. Even this one," he ended in a whisper, freeing one finger to twist a lock of her pale hair around it. Wrapped around his dark finger, it looked nearly white, and he continued twisting her hair until his fingers brushed her ear.

Lahallia shivered, like all elves her ears were very sensitive to touch, especially the brush of fingers...or cheeky Mazken blowing gently against them, as Orphael proceeded to do, unwinding her hair as he did so. She turned, like an otter in a river, to face him, wrapping her arms loosely around his neck. "I don't care what you call me...'What's in a name?', to quote the old masters." She leaned towards him, pressing her lips against his, letting him shatter the last of her reasons to stay within the Apocrypha.

In that one kiss was a promise that, just as the Apocrypha wiped name and face from her mind, he would wipe away the _memory_ with new ones. Better ones. And this time it was she who reached for them.

"I don't know what's in a name," Orphael answered the rhetorical question once he had his mouth back. His surprise at finding such a forceful steak—for want of a better description—in the reserved former librarian was matched only by the pleasure of finding it…and the pleasure of knowing whatever she _said_, her roots in the Isles went too deep to let her stay away for long. "…except this one belongs to you."

Lahallia smiled for a moment, savoring the sound of the words with closed eyes, before answering. "Then it doesn't matter _what_ you call me…so long as you call me softly."

A well-worded answer, to an indifferent poet. "Shall I stay, then, _Lahallia_?" he breathed softly against her lips.

"I would like it if you did…" Lahallia's nerves sang with an apprehension not unpleasant.

Orphael traced the shape of her ear, then along her jaw, watching her shiver again. Elves were so funny sometimes. He knew the last doubt which would linger like cobwebs in the back of her mind, and he took great pleasure in dispelling it. "And if you See…you See." It did not matter. Not in the slightest.


	55. Chapter 55

Chapter Fifty-Five: A Kingdom Without a King

--SI--

Dawn could not be far off, and for once, Lahallia did not feel like getting up and going about her business. It was nice here, right here—even if the room's décor still left much to be desired. Fortunately, it was dark, so she did not have to look at it, did not have to perceive it.

Lahallia lay limp as wilting flowers, with her back against Orphael's chest, enjoying the warmth. The cool air of Brellach pressed against her, even through the thick blanket, carrying the defunct promise of a cold night spent alone, or trapped in old fears and insecurities. She did not see how the Aureals could stand the chill. Nor could she see how she bore the muffled pain of a broken heart for so long. Muffled or not, pain was pain…she had not realize how much it hurt until the healing started.

She knew he did not really _sleep, _not even in the fashion of elves, so his next question did not startle her as she lay drowsing in the protective circle of his arms. "Don't go back to the Apocrypha." Orphael's warm breath against her ear made Lahallia shiver, raising gooseflesh on her pale arms. He drew her closer, if possible, as though this could aid his cause. He _knew_ she would not go back…but he wanted to hear it from her.

Far from the first time he'd made this request, Lahallia already gave up trying to keep count of them. Previously all such requests received answers neither definite, nor what Orphael wanted to hear. His grip tightened further, though not enough to impede her ability to breathe as he waited for her to answer.

Lahallia could not go back, and she knew it. Not anymore, not with the Apocrypha's doors opening like a dark mouth to swallow her up. She belonged to the Isles, now, a Duchess in the service of Sheogorath, and the subjects of Dementia. She had forgotten the Apocrypha's Trap, she lost her catalogue, and some things should be forgotten. Were best forgotten—but she would like to keep her memories, and not find herself sitting on a shelf one day.

Of course, such noncommittal answers were met by hot kisses, aiding the process of forgetting the dark, dusty years…she still was not clear how many. It did not matter. She could not call Orphael another reason to stay…nor could she dismiss the idea that this was exactly what he was, though not in the way most might interpret such a statement. After finding and remembering, after so many years in self-imposed isolation, what it felt like to allow another living being to touch her, or to be able to touch another herself without fear of Vision as a wedge, she was not sure she could go back to such a cold existence. Not when she had found something, which spoke to her on so many levels. There was camaraderie, trust, and courage drawn from the presence of a steadfast companion.

She had none of these things before, in the same person from whom she found comfort, protection…

Orphael certainly picked up on this. Even now, as he waited for her answer, he took to committing to memory the details of her shape, light touches drifting over her skin.

"In a realm of madness, you want a definite answer?" The humor was not lost on her.

"You like definite answers. I think the Isles are having an effect on you." Though not a bad one, certainly.

"I will stay…" twisted to face him, his eyes bright in the darkness. "Call me softly," she whispered into his pointed ear, as he nibbled at her shoulder. She rather liked the sound of the words, almost as much as she liked the feel of his lips and teeth against her skin.

His grip tightened possessively, holding her to his chest as he breathed her name against her hair.

Yes, Lord Sheogorath would want to keep the duchess—it would save him the bother of finding a new one, later, and Sheogorath hated being bothered. And elves were so long-lived anyway there was no fear of watching her grow old and fade. Orphael wondered if she knew what it meant to him, giving him a claim to her. Letting him be her reason to stay. No, she probably did not—and he did not meant to tell her. It was something to keep to himself…and feel smug about.

"The Aureals will want me to leave Brellach soon," Lahallia murmured into his shoulder. What time _was_ it? How close to dawn, for she really did mean to leave at first light…collecting her poor lonely Mazken from his tent at the feet of Brellach's Stair, of course.

Or so the Aureals would think.

Orphael realized his toes were only cold because the twisted blanket no longer protected them. Lahallia was smirking, safe and warm—an unrepentant blanket thief. Lahallia twined her arms around his neck, pulling him as close as she could before struggling to loosen her cocoon of blankets and sheets.

The Aureals might come soon, but not immediately. And a few more minutes of rest would not go amiss.

--SI--

New Sheoth was in uproar when Lahallia and Orphael returned, with an escort of two Aureal chariots—a four-Aureal escort. People raced this way and that through the streets of Bliss, with Aureals trying to restore calm—trying and failing. The sky above no longer showed the brilliant colors associated with the realm of madness. Clouds hung like a low, gray ceiling, more like a lid to a box than clouds. Strange, for the skies overhead between Brellach and here remained fairly usual for the Isles.

Lahallia's mouth thinned, her humor and sense of well-being vanishing like breath on a cold wind. This was it—a manifestation Order _here_, in the heart of the Isles. "We're out of time." Her low tone went unheeded by the Aureals, but not by Orphael. She stepped down out of the chariot as soon as it slowed enough for her to do so, and hurried towards the palace.

Orphael stepped down as well, dismissed the chariot and its team of Hungers, before sprinting after her, trying to avoid the panicking citizenry, laden with whatever they could carry as they tried to flee the city.

Tearing into the throne room, Lahallia skidded to a halt. The atmosphere hung dead, as though the air itself crystallized or froze, more and more every second, creeping away from the throne at the end of the room. Haskill, unperturbed, almost resigned, stood where he belonged—a permanent fixture of the court, untouched by the advancing air of Order.

Sheogorath's clothes gave the appearance of having faded, the gold turning silvery gray. His eyes, too, glittered silver, and not at all like his own. The sense of a great power lurking behind the human shape no longer lurked, as though Sheogorath's power was draining away, blown from him like dust in the wind. Perhaps this was closer to the truth, as he changed into Jyggalag—the very madness which made Sheogorath Sheogorath leeching from him as it leeched from the land, to re-manifest somewhere else.

"We're out of time," Lahallia repeated softly, watching with cold, sinking dread weighing down her stomach. The Mazken and Aureal guards no longer stood at their posts—presumably dismissed by Haskill for their own safety.

Sheogorath heard her, straightening up in his throne, his staff in hand. "Time." The flat, toneless voice held neither life, nor his usual accent, only the faintest hint of a rumble Orphael did not like. The rumble grated on his ears, unnatural, almost uncomfortable. "An artificial construct. The arbitrary system based on an idea that events occur in a linear direction at all times. Always forward, never back. Is the concept of time correct? Is time relevant? It matters not. One way or another, I fear our time has run out."

A very wordy, Lahallia thought grimly, way of agreeing with her. Even so, the discourse on time—with such lucidity—was far more frightening than anything else Sheogorath ever said or did while in her presence. It left her trembling, unwilling to stay, unable to run.

Orphael shook too, more keenly aware of the _wrongness_ in the room than Lahallia, being tied so much more closely to it. His arm burned again, worse than ever, silvery lights popping in his peripheral vision. His sense of _being Mazken_ felt as though it tried to escape through his chest, to rejoin a master he no longer served.

Lahallia saw him reach for his heart, grabbing his arm as she drew Malice, preparatory to anything that might happen. Who knew if Order Knights would suddenly pour out of the sky like flaming dogs?

"As I feared it would, my plan has failed. The Greymarch is upon us, and I must go. I thought we had more time. I thought we had a chance. My plan has failed. And we were so close..." Yet the voice remained flat, toneless, dead. Sheogorath stood up, a puppet drawn on strings as his clothes finally turned silver. Now, his skin began to lose its pallor, turning gray.

"What can I do?" Lahallia demanded, her mismatched eyes blazing in her white face. Her hand ached as she clenched Malice's hilt. She would _not_ stand by and be killed by anyone. Not now, and not like this.

"I had intended to give you my staff, the symbol of my office. But life has gone from it, as it goes from me. It is now dead wood. A useless twig." Sheogorath held it up….and dropped it to the floor. The staff shattered into splinters, which changed into Order dust, pale against the fading carpet. "With the staff, there was hope. But now, hope is dead. I am dead. The realm..."

Orphael sprang back, clutching the back of Lahallia's armor as he dragged her with him. The wave of power resurging from the diminished prince made him want to cough, as though for want of air, but the immediate danger to the duchess overrode all other considerations.

"The realm is dead!" Sheogorath's voice boomed, but no longer the voice Lahallia and Orphael knew.

The blast of power, like an explosion, knocked them both to the ground. The color in the throne room vanished, except for the tree at the end of the hall, and the plants clinging to its roots. Lahallia and Orphael landed heavily on the thin gray carpet.

Silver, burning light seared at the eyes as the reek of Order filled the room, metallic, consistent, inescapable. Even Lahallia found herself struggling to breathe it was so thick. Haskill moved slowly, as though wading through water, placing himself between the fallen Mazken and Altmer. Head bowed, he seemed to the onlookers nothing more than a shadow made solid.

"_Sheogorath is dead_!" The direction of power changed, pulling on itself instead of pushing outward, sucking the lifeblood of the Isles towards its epicenter like a massive Crystalline Spire.

Orphael grabbed Lahallia, feeling the pull. Not just a pull against essence, a pull against the physical as well. Of course, he thought bitterly, a Daedric Prince—_any _Prince—could not do things quietly.

Lahallia cried out as she slipped, the draw becoming more powerful. Orphael shifted, tightening his grip, reassuring her that whatever this pull was, it was not strong enough to move them both.

Or so he hoped.

Wall hangings flapped, the tree at the end of the hall rustled. Then it all stopped. The draw ceased to pull. The silence was so complete for moment Orphael thought the effects of this…whatever it was…had struck him deaf. He shifted to peer past Haskill, standing immobile as a stone.

Lahallia, breathing hard, got to her feet, stepping out from behind Haskill. Not sure what to expect, she shook with nerves, visibly. With an effort of will she drew a shield before Haskill, which would provide enough protection for all three of them.

"You won't need that," Haskill announced. For once there was an inflection of real emotion in his tone. A hint of defeat, of broken hope.

Standing at the end of the Hall, where Sheogorath once sat stood an Order Knight, gleaming from within with white light. Like but unlike, this Knight towered impossibly huge in the room, warping the dimensions Orphael was used to.

"_All shall crumble before Jyggalag!_" The voice was one Lahallia could feel vibrating in the marrow of her bones.

Another pulse of power knocked Lahallia off her feet, slamming her to the ground again. Before she impacted on the carpet, with just enough to time let go of Malice and use both hands to protect the back of her head, Jyggalag leapt upward, smashing through the ceiling.

Orphael scrambled to his feet, into the jagged circle of light pouring in from outside. Above him the clouds turned dark gray as Jyggalag, glinting, seemed to hang in the sky like a star before moving out of sight—just like a Daedric Prince—choosing a new plane to represent the ground, be it in the air, or under the water.

Lahallia got to her feet, dazedly, her hands aching from the crush between head and floor. "And what about _you_?" She demanded fiercely of Haskill, reclaiming Malice. So this was it, had they failed? Or was there yet _something_ they could do? With the Fringe occupied, escape was not an option, nor was hiding in Pinnacle Rock—or anywhere else.

"What about me?" Haskill asked, still immobile, his hands folded behind him as he regarded the hole in the ceiling, still showering bits of dust and masonry. "Is it really worth mending, when Jyggalag planning to finish it off later?"

Lahallia ignored the rhetorical question, moving to stand before Haskill. "I asked you a question."

"You did, and I answered it. Further answers belong to lord Sheogorath."

Haskill's bland response touched a nerve in a way nothing ever said before had. "Listen you!" Lahallia tried to grab Haskill by his shirtfront, but her hand stopped inches away.

"You're wasting energy, and you're wasting time," Haskill cut in flatly.

Orphael strode over to Haskill, scowling with greater dislike than usual. This useless chamberlain was going to be a lead contributor to Jyggalag wiping the Isles form the Oblivionic maps! "You want to talk about wasting time, when you're stonewalling the only leadership we have left?"

Haskill ignored Orphael, fixing his eyes on Lahallia. Pink patches had appeared on her cheeks and her eyes still blazed in their sockets. "You would both be better employed finding out what you should do now."

"What should we do now?" Lahallia's sneer could not have held any more scorn and contempt if she left it to soak overnight in a mixture of both.

"Sheogorath is gone, but we have a rare opportunity here…I hesitate to do what must be done."

The energy radiating from Lahallia, as though all the power of Dementia now moved through her, without Sheogorath to fuel, made Orphael's skin prickle, his hair standing at attention. Did that mean Mania, leaderless, was now tearing itself apart? As much as the forefront of his mind hoped so, the back of his mind staggered at the crumbling of everything he knew. Perhaps _that_ was where Lahallia's sudden strength and intensity came from. She once watched her world crumble into dust.

She would not stand still for it a second time. "_Talk._" Her tone held no power, except the power of a personality strained to breaking.

"If the Throne of Madness remains empty when Jyggalag storms the palace, he will prevail, as he has every time before. But there is a chance the throne may not be empty," Haskill chose his words carefully, well aware of the power radiating from Lahallia—not all of it her own.

Symbols had power, and without Sheogorath, rule fell to the ducal houses. For a short time, before Jyggalag squashed them, or they escaped, the ducal houses wielded more power than usual. Nothing to rival Sheogorath's, but enough to harry Jyggalag, if they had the courage to do so.

Most put their energy into fleeing with the citizenry. Except Vaelar, who died in the Fringe, leading his Mazken. _That_ was a battle to remember—though no one save Haskill himself _did_ remember it. Perhaps Sheogorath did, perhaps not. One could never tell with the Shattered Mind.

"How?" Lahallia asked crisply. This was ridiculous. Usually so loquacious—if sarcastic after his own fashion—whatever made Haskill suddenly decided to drivel on like an idiot?

"I don't see why he cares. He's never stirred himself to take an interest in the goings on of the Isles before." Orphael did not care much for logic at this point—anger made him sharp and demanded an outlet. Venting it at Lahallia remained unacceptable, which left only Haskill. If his irritation was any less, he might have noticed such a sentiment would be unutterable with Sheogorath in his proper place.

Haskill pursed his lips. "My duty now is to the Realm. By serving the Duchess, I serve Lord Sheogorath. And my function is to serve Lord Sheogorath." Something in the way he said this, coupled with what Lahallia previously Saw made her certain this pair of statements were true only from a certain point of view.

He would probably not explain it to her.

Orphael subsided into brooding silence. So that was Haskill's answer? Just stand here and be crushed by Jyggalag when the time came? Brilliant plan. What could you expect from a thing with no imagination?

"Well, I'm open to suggestions." Lahallia did not see what else she could do. Sheathing Malice, she crossed her arms, glowering at Haskill. Why did she have to hold his hand? Why couldn't he just spit it out and let them get on with the battle preparations?

Battle preparations…she needed the captains of the Mazken and Aureal garrisons…fortifying three places no longer seemed an option. Having failed to succeed in stopping up one Wellspring, Jyggalag would move on to something else. An assault on the palace, most likely, though before or after walking Order across the Isles Lahallia did not know. She could see flaws and strengths to such a plan…but could not see it as Jyggalag did. He had more information, understood the workings of the Greymarch better than she did.

But the final battle would take place here, and here they would have to make a stand. That was probably how it always played out. She did not see, yet, how she could turn the tide, but she would try. She could do nothing else.

Haskill nodded. At least the Duchess was sensible, unlike her Mazken. Haskill could feel the desire to fight something or someone—just to have something to do—roiling around the Mazken. "The only way to protect the Realm from the Greymarch is to place you in the Throne of Madness," Haskill announced, watching with concealed interest at the Altmer's reaction.

"Excuse me?" Lahallia blinked in shock. Surely she had not heard him right.


	56. Chapter 56

Chapter Fifty-Six: A Great Deal of Order

--SI--

"I'm sorry, do what now?" Orphael asked, exchanging a look with Lahallia. Neither of them expected Haskill to go insane _right this moment_, though perhaps they should have. With everything else turning upside down, why not?

Haskill's words echoed in the room, as strange as any gibberish ever spouted by any madman in the history of the Isles. '_The only way to protect the Realm from the Greymarch is to place you in the Throne of Madness.'_ He really was crazy…and to say it with a straight face…

Haskill did not flinch or react to the disbelief etched so plainly on the faces before him. "Have I gone and imitated Bolwing, then? _You_," he pointed with both hands, palms pressed together, at Lahallia, "will sit on the throne. It has always been Sheogorath's intent for you to be the new madgod."

"Me…I can't…I'm-I'm not a Daedra, even…" Lahallia sputtered, trying—and failing—to comprehend this new development. There was no precedent…none at all!

What else could she expect in a mad realm when the chamberlain finally lost his marbles?

"Have either of you labored under them misapprehension that I have a sense of humor?" Haskill asked dryly, once more taking in the expressions. If he _had_ a sense of humor, he would certainly have laughed at their faces.

"No, because this isn't funny. In fact, it's rather sick," Orphael retorted. Who knew what putting an Altmer in a Daedra's—a Daedric _Prince's_—place could do to that unfortunate mortal? It could tear her apart, or worse.

Still…she _would_ look striking in purple and gold…

"It is true, you are no Daedra. However, perhaps you can hold the throne, provided you possess the proper symbol of office. '_In the Isles_ _symbols are important'._ The symbol you need would be the Staff of Sheogorath. Yes, the one which disintegrated before your very eyes."

This time Orphael held his tongue, refusing to humor Haskill, who evidently took perverse pleasure in stringing out explanations, and was dying to be asked questions and play the role of advisor. He would not give Haskill the satisfaction by playing along.

Lahallia gave Haskill a look which should, by rights, evaporate ice.

With a look like that, she could easily cow the Aureals into following her, if need be. "When Sheogorath faded, the power of the Staff faded with him. It must now be remade. It's quite simple, actually, he who rightfully holds the Staff may hold the throne of the Shivering Isles," Haskill continued, unphased.

"He who has the gold makes the rules," Lahallia mumbled. The prospect terrified her, but so did finding herself trod underfoot by the Greymarch. Trapped between two choices she did not like, she would have to opt for the one ending in her survival. Keeping it simple sounded like an excellent plan to her.

"However, the secrets of its construction are lost," Haskill continued, ignoring Lahallia's comment to herself.

Orphael rolled his eyes, giving a sharp exhale of frustration. First one thing and then another. Apparently Haskill did not need _anyone's_ help stringing out an answer. What happened to the succinct detail man always at Sheogorath's elbow?

"You are in luck," Haskill continued, ignoring the sounds of grinding teeth, the sight of hands gripping weapons, and narrowed eyes. "That which is lost can be found again. There is one being in the Shivering Isles who may be able to assist you in the construction of a new Staff. The ruins of Knifepoint Hollow once served as part of a great library. There, you will find a door. Behind that door, you will find the answer you seek. I think you will find it quite to your liking, Your Grace. Although...I hesitate to guide you towards this path. The secrets of the past will surely aid Jyggalag, but I fear that we have no other choice."

Lahallia sucked on her teeth, letting the jab about the Apocrypha go. It did not matter, and Haskill was wasting time. "You're aiding Jyggalag by giving him time to conquer while you're wandering in your wits—get _on_ with it already." She crossed her arms, willing herself to squelch her own temper. It worked, but less effectively than in her Apocrypha days.

"The library is a thing of Order, some of the last remnants of Order's origins, and it will still serve that end. Take this crystal," Haskill waved a hand, a sharp shard of an Order crystal appeared, more like an awl than a key. "It contains the power to open the sealed door. Inside, you will find the final remnants of the library."

"Do you know where Knifepoint Hollow is?" Lahallia asked Orphael, examining the key carefully. It glittered in her hand, drawing the eye. The faint familiarity of it reminded her of the Apocrypha…but different. She supposed the two must be somewhat akin, Knowledge and Order.

"Head west towards the border of Mania. You climb up a cliff there. At the peak is Knifepoint Hollow…but I didn't know there was anything there," Orphael admitted.

"None of the Mazken—or the Aureals—do. Not that you know much to begin with," Haskill supplied without malice.

Orphael ignored this, but shifted uncomfortably as Haskill turned his attention to Orphael's right arm. It was as though the man _knew_ something about the dark mark, like a burn, not completely hidden by his armor.

"How long before Jyggalag can destroy the Isles? Why didn't he just obliterate them wholly?" Lahallia asked, then promptly failed to listen to an answer, sudden inspiration—or panic—striking her. "Orphael—go tell the Mazken Garrison I want a meeting with its first and second officer." Lahallia stopped, remembering the gifts from Brellach. She had no use for the armor, pretty thing that it was, but the other gift…

She waved her hand as Orphael strode out. An Aureal appeared in a puff of golden dust. "Your Grace," she bowed, one hand on her sword hilt, looking ready for a fight.

"Go to House Mania and have the commanding officer and her second meet me here. Come with them, this is a council of war." The realm should not end up in a complete panic while she went traipsing over the land like a loose cow.

"Yes, Your Grace. At once," the Aureal bowed deeply, before hurrying off at a trot.

"Jyggalag cannot simply obliterate the Isles. He must adhere to certain…parameters," Lahallia stifled a triumphant 'I knew it!', "All the Princes do. It was because he _broke_ those parameters he was confined here," Haskill explained when Lahallia turned her attention back to him.

"Tell me about this, first. What caused the schism?" Though Lahallia could guess, she wanted to _know_. It might give her an idea what she could do to rout Jyggalag, since the other Daedra would not help her. More and more she suspected Azura had not expected, or meant, for her to come this far. Well, new things had a habit of acting in a disobliging manner.

"At first there wasn't any. Jyggalag had his realm of influence, and the others had theirs. But Order sees all other things as…well, chaos, and Order will try to even out chaotic things. There was once great friendship between Hermaeus Mora and Jyggalag—but it was there the first encroachment occurred."

"Jyggalag tried to mix Order and Knowledge," Lahallia finished. Was that part of the reason Hermaeus Mora obsessively collected knowledge? Not only out of an understandable desire to keep the Apocrypha current, to recover anything Jyggalag might have taken and lost? She could easily imagine Jyggalag leeching at the Apocrypha just as he leeched the Isles.

Haskill took a deep breath, wondering vaguely if the Altmer's mind could process all the information she was about to receive. Doubtless, she would not leave until she had answers, and they did not have time for him to string things out any further, to use the colloquialism. "He did, and succeeded in absorbing quite a bit of the Apocrypha, once he realized that was the only way to increase his influence—easiest to begin somewhere where affinity existed, and to Order, knowledge is necessary for the planning stages of Ordering places without an affinity to it.

"His library, part of it, exists as Knifepoint Hollow. Hermaeus Mora recovered much of what Jyggalag took from him, but not all. The rest of Jyggalag's amassed knowledge, which includes the beginning of the Isles as you know them, all happenings since then, all the memories of the Mazken and Aureals are recorded by Dyus."

"Dyus?"

"The one to whom you will speak, within Knifepoint Hollow. He knows things, some say all things. Here in this realm secrets are power, so Dyus is a being of great might. Fortunately, Dyus has such an intimate knowledge of things to come that he sees no purpose in taking any action, since he sees the outcome as already written. This is where Jyggalag made his mistake.

"Dyus cares little for events, or battles. He amasses knowledge, drinks it in from the Isles. He is kept locked away to prevent curious beings from using his knowledge to subvert the personal choices of other creatures…or to alter events. He's not a Seer. He's…call him a Calculator…he knows what was, so he knows what will be. Relatively speaking." There, a massive explanation squashed down into a mortal-comprehensible serving.

"So he can make mistakes?" Lahallia asked, her head spinning.

"I don't know. No one knows. He's never made any, because he's never spoken with anyone, not since being sequestered here. But with all the shattered minds, some form of record must be kept," Haskill answered blandly, aware of the degree of shrewd calculation which did not fully manifest on Lahallia's face.

"And the Isles got landed with the leftovers. Was he Severed and Reattached?" Lahallia asked, groping for the words.

Haskill's surprise at her knowledge of the words did not show, but he did feel it. "He is permitted dual loyalties, since he does not interact with the world outside. It matters nothing to him whether it is Ordered or not." If dual loyalty if could be called. The bottom line remained, as Haskill said, Dyus had no loyalty. What did a living receptacle of knowledge need with loyalty, or fealty to a lord?

"How does he gather memories?" Best not to touch Dyus, or even get too close to him. Something like _that_ would certainly trigger Visions, and Lahallia suspected the Visions would be strong. Strong and painful. She did not have time to lie about, thrashing like a beached fish. After so long in a timeless environment, seconds now seemed precious as if the grains of sand, which denoted their passing, were made of something rare and valuable.

And like a miser, she had far too little.

"The Waters of Oblivion, naturally. The memories the Daedra here lose have to go _somewhere_, be found by _someone_, don't you agree?" Haskill shifted—she had yet to ask several key questions, but perhaps they had not occurred to her.

Lahallia abandoned the concept. Water could serve as a conductor, sometimes, for magical power, and one could run spells through it…there _were_ documented cases, though few far between, and sometimes accidental. Once again, strange facts from the Apocrypha came in handy.

She supposed this must be the same concept—or one very similar. Water kept cropping up in all sorts of places, after all, the seas surrounding the Isles, the Wellsprings, the Founts through which the Mazken and Aureals were first summoned…and all Daedra went to the Waters when they died, and came back from them to a prearranged location for reemergence. As confusing as it all was, it all seemed to _fit_. More or less.

"Does he know things outside the Isles?" Lahallia asked uncomfortably.

"I don't know. Perhaps not—Daedric Princes so jealously guard their realms. Your councilors are here," Haskill added, noting the movement out of the corner of his eye.

Lahallia did not let him sidetrack her. He was good at that, but she felt she was getting good at spotting such sidetracking comments. "And Jyggalag will come here, straight here, won't he?"

"He will. He must."

Must, why 'must'? The question gnawed at Lahallia, because something seemed…missing. And she did not know what question to ask to fill in the missing piece. Or pieces. She could not count on Haskill to volunteer the information—he was scarcely volunteering anything now. She had to ask the right question to get an answer, and even then, he skewed the answers as though he did not want her to succeed.

Dismissing the annoyance Haskill was causing her—may clowns nibble his ankles—she returned to practicalities…

…clowns. Clowns _again_? She shuddered. What was it with clowns in the Isles? Of all the sick obsessions…

Jyggalag once referred to his Daedra as 'the Chessmen'. Maybe he considered the Isles in the fashion of a game of chess—he the white and they the black. And the New Sheoth Palace was the king…or the king's spot. Not a perfect simile, but close enough. Lahallia could fit almost everyone on the board—though the Isles were already short one bishop, Mania's ruler.

Something niggled at the back of Lahallia's mind as she gave her attention to the assembling Daedra. Something she ought to be able to identify, but for the life of her, she could not think what it was. Something incongruous, something which did not belong…and it had nothing to do with the rubble on the floor. No, it had nothing to do with rubble.

_Her_ Mazken did not need a shave—did Mazken need to shave?—so it couldn't have anything to do with _stubble._

And bubbles were out of the question completely, unless they were filled with strawberry jam. Or just strawberries…

Lahallia shook herself visibly. What sheer lunacy! She nearly forgot the Isles would cause strange thoughts, if thoughts roamed unchecked.

Orphael watched Lahallia shake herself, as though from sleep. The grakedrig, and her grakella second-in-command both expected such a summons, and so came as quickly as possible, all armed for war as though the fight might break out any second. The Mazken quarter of the house seethed with activity, armor checked and refitted, weapons sharpened, respelled, everything double and triple checked, guard details forming up, awaiting orders. Messengers stood ready, anxious and eager to be off.

He could only imagine what kind of uproar Pinnacle Rock was in—doubtless everyone fit to travel was arming for war, preparing to march, even, should the order come. Lots would be drawn for the few who must stay behind to seal the place. No one wanted to stay behind, not when Jyggalag threatened the realm…

…and how did Lahallia intend to explain Jyggalag and Sheogorath? For a Mazken to turn a hand against Sheogorath was unthinkable…and if Jyggalag _was_ Sheogorath—or would be again—then…he looked down at his arm, where the skin showed darker than the rest.

It was unthinkable for a Mazken to raise his hand against his master. And this supposedly had happened before…

But the Aureals and Mazken, as well as the usual detachments of guards were standing, waiting, worried looks aimed at the silvery additions to the ruined hall. "We're holding a council of war—I don't want to hear a single jibe at the other side of the table until it is concluded. We do not have the time." Lahallia's voice snapped with authority as she walked up to Sheogorath's throne, and stood on the lowest step leading up to it. "Let's get down to business."

The Mazken and Aureal Commanders, and their seconds arrayed themselves to either side of Lahallia, with Orphael and the Aureal messenger opposite. The rest of the guard stood round, all avoiding chunks of the roof scattered amongst them in disarray.

Lahallia's mind swiftly packed all superfluous details into boxes, and locked them in a closet for sorting at a later, more opportune time. Right now, the only relevant things were setting up defenses for the Isles, and constructing plans that could go into effect with or without Lahallia present.

"As you can see, Lord Sheogorath is not here," she continued briskly.

"Where is he, Your Grace?" Aurmazl Yrlaine asked, glancing up at the hole.

Lahallia did not show any sign of discomfiture by the question. "Jyggalag has manifested," she said with such fatalism that she did not need to answer the rest of the question.

Yrlaine and her second in command, Arinda, exchanged looks. "He…he couldn't have…how did he get in? How did he get _here_? He was destroyed…" Arinda stammered, her clear voice devoid of Aureal superiority in this moment when the foundations of everything she believed in were shaken.

"Apparently not—I suspect Jyggalag was mortally wounded...and slipped away. Daedric Princes are a slippery lot…except our lord," Grakedrig Ororia announced, but her tone indicated this last part was an afterthought, tacked on out of habit rather than from dedicated service.

Lahallia frowned at her. Yes, it was the same Mazken she left in charge, but it occurred to her only now she did not know her name, and could not place her face, either. Scarcely surprising, but rather a lot to overlook. "I don't remember you."

Ororia bowed. "The Mazken are always shuffling our ranks, so the best-fitted for a task are positioned to carry it out. I was appointed after Duchess Syl was replaced, Your Grace. Treiya is my grakella."

"I see, thank you. Order expects this development will throw us into disarray—it has certainly upset our plans. As the only remaining courtier, I will ask you formally to vest your trust in me, until such time as Lord Sheogorath returns. If we stand divided…"

"You have the loyalty of the Mazken, Your Grace," Oloria spoke up before Lahallia finished, shooting a glance at the Aureals, as though declaring they had neither the guts to follow a Demented leader, or to do anything except snivel and play with their toes in a time of crisis.

No Aureal could take such an implication, not under the current circumstances. "We've heard of your tactical skills, Duchess, and we know what you have done for us at Brellach. You have but to say the word, and it shall be done, whatever it is," Yrlaine answered with a deep bow.

Good, Lahallia could ask for nothing more. Orphael repressed a smile—who would have expected his Duchess to end up such a marvelous leader? A Demented Duchess with both her Mazken and the Aureals in tow and happy about it?

"Thank you. Is there an evacuation plan for New Sheoth?"

"None, Your Grace. Most of the citizenry in Crucible have fled, either from the city or into private boltholes. No one is as adept at getting out of harm's way as the Demented," one of the Mazken guards announced. When Lahallia gave the woman her full attention the Mazken saluted. "I am Grakella Aiselle, First Officer of the Crucible Watch, it's my job to know. Since the crisis began, we've been ordered to stay in contact with New Sheoth Palace. We're very efficient."

Lahallia dismissed questions of how exactly their system was efficient. If the Mazken said it was, it was enough.

"Bliss is in an uproar, but most of the citizenry—those with the faculties to do so—are on the move. I have two detachments of the Bliss Watch shepherding them out as best they can. Do you think Jyggalag will come to New Sheoth?" an Aureal of the Bliss Watch asked, shifting uneasily.

"I intend him to. Can you seal Brellach and Pinnacle rock to intruders?" Lahallia realized, belatedly, she had already instructed Oloria to do this. This was, perhaps, why Oloria swelled with pride.

"Of course," Yrlaine answered quickly, seeing the Mazken's pride, "only someone on the inside can let outsiders in—and even then there are very few exceptions…and after the fiasco you recently corrected…no practical foe would assault our stronghold. No, the only ones gaining admission into Brellach are Aureals."

This sore point would probably make Brellach _the_ most secure place in all the Isles.

"The messenger was dispatched shortly before you left for Brellach. The Mazken will be here in with due haste," Oloria reported.

"How fast can your messengers arrive?" They might not have _time_ to get Brellach's people here. The Mazken already had a good head start. Lahallia had long ago ceased to try figuring out how far it from one place to another here. Time and distance may have settled with the advent of Jyggalag, but she had yet to equate one to the other.

"There's a system already in place. We can get to Brellach almost instantaneously," Yrlaine answered. "I believe it is a counterfeit of a system used in Tamriel, so Chamberlain Haskill said. It would take a messenger only minutes. The army must come by foot, or chariot, even, but they will make all haste. And Mazken do not sleep."

"I agree, though I think we could get here quickest. We're used to hard travel on a time limit," Treiya spoke up for the first time.

"Shall we give the order?" Yrlaine asked, unwilling to make any snap orders before the Duchess confirmed them.

"Give it. I want the combined forces of Brellach and Pinnacle Rock here as fast as they can come. Leave small detachments to guard the strongholds from within, but not too many," Lahallia declared, her mind flicking through everything she knew about battle tactics. Siege made no sense, not when Jyggalag and Lahallia knew where this was going…more or less.

"That is standard protocol. I would ask your permission to instate the Auren," Yrlaine's voice was low, although invoking something nearly sacred.

"The what?" Lahallia glanced at Orphael.

"The Auren sounds like the Mazken equivalent of the Autkendo—the wartime…I think you would call her a general. The Autkendo serves as the high command for the entire garrison, answerable only to the holder of the ducal seat, or Sheogorath. In this way, the captains of the guards at the various sites won't end up stepping on one another's toes," Orphael answered. Far from feeling left out of the conversation, he marveled at Lahallia's levelheadedness, with so much thrown at her all at once.

She handled the Mazken and Aureals like a charioteer handled Hungers, with superb balance, playing on their rivalries under a guise of teamwork. He was not sure she could fill Sheogorath's boots, but she certainly was making a fine field commander herself.

And how long ago was it she was just a librarian?

"Have it done," Lahallia's voice snapped Orphael out of his thoughts. "Orphael, we're leaving," Lahallia turned first to Oloria, then to Yrlaine, "I am _not_ taking an army. Orphael is my bodyguard, he knows how I work, he knows what I need done.

"You two will confer, and manage things while I'm away. I have errands at Lord Sheogorath's command. Your Auren and Autkendo will report immediately to Haskill, who will take their names. I want them both to draw up defense plans for the city, and for the palace, in the event we have to retreat all the way back here—also to go to Haskill. Haskill," Lahallia had to draw breath here, surprised by her own authoritativeness.

Haskill stood unobtrusively in his usual place, listening politely. "Your Grace?"

"You will hold onto all the plans, appointments, and details. Don't lose any." But the clear hint was he was not to do anything to them, except hold them for her.

"No, Your Grace."

Lahallia was halfway to the door, Orphael hurrying out before her, when she stopped. "And someone get a guard around those Order Spires in the courtyard! I don't want them activating while my back's turned!"

"Yes Your Grace," Oloria and Yrlaine chorused, echoed by their subordinates.

At the door, Lahallia stopped again, turning to shout across the room. "Have the war-room set up in here—tables, chairs, maps, you know your business. I want them all in here when I get back."

"When will you be back, Your Grace?" Haskill asked.

Lahallia turned, with a smile of someone exacting sweet revenge. "I don't know, Haskill. You just stay out of their way. Be ready to make a full report when I _do_ get back." She stepped through the door, then poked her head back through it. "And I _will_ be back."

--SI--

**The transport system is similar to the one used at Frostcraig Spire. There are teleportation pads leading to the Guilds, but not back from them. These are, of course, calibrated so only an Aureal or a Mazken respectively, can use them. It seems ridiculous to have the Rock and Brellach cut off from New Sheoth completely.


	57. Chapter 57

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Knifepoint Hollow

--SI--

The hard march to Knifepoint Hollow left Orphael and Lahallia no breath for talking. In fact, both of them had to stop to breathe for a few moments, upon gaining the summit.

Lahallia wiped her sweating brow on her sleeve, beginning to wish for a real bath, in a tub, with lots of hot water. And…she glanced over at Orphael before snapping herself back to what she ought to be doing. This was neither the time, nor the place for that sort of wistful thinking.

End of the world? Collapse of a realm? Imminent death? Definitely not the time.

Orphael shook his head. "Of all the most inaccessible places…" but he nearly wheezed it. Far from out of shape, the rough terrain and the speed Lahallia set made him wonder at how quickly she shook off the librarian sedentary lifestyle…

…before remembering the Apocrypha was a dangerous place, that knowledge, apparently, was dangerous…and obtaining it could be more dangerous still. Surely the Attendants were as well trained as anyone could be, to take on possibly dangerous missions. He never asked, nor even thought about it before now. Perhaps here was the source of her leadership skills, born of competency in dangerous situations rather than from study.

Seeing Orphael so out of sorts, when she was only sweaty and a little winded, Lahallia suppressed wicked humor. "I think this place doesn't want you here." It sounded logical—some kind of protection granted to Knifepoint Hollow, in order to keep Mazken, Aureals and possible mad people out. She was not _quite_ mad, so perhaps the protections did not work so well. Of course, Jyggalag and his cronies could probably get in…maybe the Apocrypha still had marks on her, wearing off, but still present enough to permit her to subvert the normal rules, because they did not strictly apply.

But thinking of the Apocrypha leaving traces on her left her feeling absolutely filthy, in a way she had not previously. Her skin crawled, prompting her to shiver.

"Sounds reasonable…this also sounds like your neck of the mushroom woods…" Orphael straightened, once his chest stopped aching. "Let's find this oracle and get it over with. I'll bet he makes me sneeze." Doubtless. Things of Order and Mania _always _made him sneeze.

Grumpy Mazken might intimidate some people, but in this case Orphael only further amused Lahallia, for which she was grateful. It kept the scream of survival instincts telling her to _run away_ from the Isles from interfering with her current task.

The sky overhead hung low and cloudy here as well, as though the realm meant to block itself off from the rest of Oblivion as the Greymarch closed in. "I'd offer to hold your hand…but I might need my sword," Lahallia remarked lightly, producing the crystalline key.

Orphael gave her one of those eloquent looks, which caused a faint blush to appear on Lahallia's already flushed cheeks.

Approaching the doorway in the great mass of tree roots, Lahallia wondered if she would _ever_ learn that Orphael was one of those people who had mastered the art of the wordless rejoinder. "All the same," Orphael declared, taking hold of Lahallia's arm and tugging sharply at it so she knocked into him, "you should stay close."

"Mm," Lahallia answered, but stifled a wiggle in her stomach. Now was not the time—and more the pity. Memory left her skin prickling pleasatly as she led the way down the short tunnel to the door. She conjured up a magelight to aid her search for a keyhole once she reached the door.

Not finding one, Lahallia touched the crystal shard to the door. With a sigh like a dying breath, exuding a smell of dust, dry paper, and something like but unlike the Apocrypha, the door opened, the Isles-esque barrier revealing a crystal block, which seemed to collapse in on itself, folding up into a low archway, imitating bricks.

Lahallia drew her sword, Orphael following suit, but holding her back by the arm still in his hand, electing to go first. Lahallia did not fight him on this point, understanding the difference between duty and personal life. Despite the nature of this ruin, she did not expect to meet any enemies. With the place sealed off as it was, warded against creatures of the Isles, what could possibly get in?

The rough tunnel gave way to an enormous room of smooth gray stone, with four sided pillars reminiscent of Order crystals supported the roof. Lahallia stopped, looking about the room. Overhead, magelight lamps studded the ceiling, but many were missing panes of glass, and most did not function. The few that did gave the ruin a sense of cloudy-day light streaming through round windows.

The multi-leveled construction hinted at bookcases or worktables, but the wood of both, the papers and paraphernalia was gone. Dust gathered in corners, but no spiders wove silken curtains to ease the angular, rigidly symmetrical chamber.

A library savaged. Lahallia called the spell for detect life, finding a faint signature across a long raised walkway, almost like a bridge. Had this been Brellach or Pinnacle Rock, or any place in New Sheoth Palace, she would have expected water to fill the hallways below. Hallways which cut off abruptly, blocked by smooth, gray walls. Lahallia decided this must be the heart of Jyggalag's library, removed from the original like an apple core and set here, underground, a prison and an unseen monument.

Orphael sniffled, but found the dust just _dust_, nothing to do with Order. Now he was _inside _the ruin, he no longer felt half so horrible, nor half so worn out. "It's too quiet," he finally said. His voice did not reverberate, as if the air forced the sound to halt, keeping it from travelling. The stifling quality of the air increased with the sudden sound of speech.

His voice made Lahallia realize how the air pressed almost painfully against her eardrums, how close the thick air was, as though it resented living creatures in its once-hallowed halls. It did give her the impression of a temple, or shrine, but a tomb. A tomb eager for new tenants.

"Let's go," Lahallia swallowed thickly, taking the lead as she sheathed Malice. Every step towards the vivid lifelight did not seem to make it any clearer. She reached the wall at the far end of the walkway. An archway, once an actual passage, dominated the wall, but tightly laid, cleverly carved stones walled it in. Instinctively raising the key still in her hand, she jabbed it into a join between bricks, like a murderous dagger into an unsuspecting victim.

The stones did not fold and collapse in on themselves. They simply were there one moment, but not the next. The lifelight blossomed properly—doubtless the wall served as a mask for Dyus' presence. Lahallia jabbed the key into her belt and stepped into the room.

_This _was not part of the library anymore—or it was not wholly part of the library. The usual sort of Dementia burrowing roots formed the room in which Dyus sat, the earth and plantlife encroaching over the grey stone floor, wrapping around the crumbled remains of pillars.

Dyus himself sat upon a raised stone platform, in a battered wooden chair. It bore a resemblance to Sheogorath's throne, only far more simplistic. A weathered, thin, frail man he looked, with an exhaustion indescribably in words. At first glance he looked white in a way not even Lahallia, so long out of the sunlight, could achieve. Closer inspection revealed his skin was not paper-white, but translucent revealing grey beneath, as though he was filled with dust.

The air around him did not hum, or buzz, but Lahallia knew instinctively _here_ was a Daedra, though perhaps not in its original form. Dyus' eyes had no pupil, and no whites, just silver filling the area behind his lids. The way his skin hung off his bones hinted at his extreme age in an un-Daedra-like way. His gray robes hung loose, but not tattered. It could be said his robes were in better condition than he himself. A pale grey, nearly white, long robe like a habit reached to his ankles, showing from beneath a black and silver sleeveless jacket, which four buttons held closed along his breastbone.

The silver embroidery danced before Lahallia's eyes, as if the symbols moved and sputtered. Looking closer she realized why—the silver marks were easiest to see, but beneath them squirmed further signs and symbols, black on black. Even his pale robes showed signs of similar pale additions, discernable to those who could see it. After another moment of looking almost cross-eyed at him, she realized the symbols must have to do with his position as a repository of information. A person in authority might carry a symbol, and symbols were important here, so perhaps the robes were just that.

Orphael could not see the silver marks embroidery, but could smell the reek of Order, tempered by the dug-out cave in which Dyus sat. The energy of the Isles gripped this place, like a small creature in a predator's claws. Could the thing see with eyes like that? Or was it blind?

"I have been waiting for you, Your Grace," Dyus voice was toneless, making Haskill seem positively animated by contrast. "And you –––––––." Lahallia could not hear the last word, nor read Dyus' lips.

But Orphael heard, and understood. "…Number Six of Ten, Third Rune, First Incarnation." He felt as though someone had just pinned an identification tag to his ear. Doubtless that was what he _was_. Orphael's mouth thinned—he did not like the sound of that name. It made him seem…like an object, an _it_ instead of a living male creature.

Dyus returned his attention to Lahallia, though neither could tell if he was actually blind or not. Perhaps not, or perhaps he perceived the world in a different way than a mortal or a Mazken. "Sheogorath the Shattered Mind has fallen and you seek the means to foil the machinations of Jyggalag the Prince of Order. You seek the throne of madness."

Dyus' very breath exuded Vision triggers. She backed straight into Orphael, half-afraid simply breathing the same air would render her incapable of continuing her mission. She could not afford to fall apart here. If he trigged the Sight…she might never be sane again. She might die in the throes of Vision too much for a mortal mind to fathom. Dyus continued speaking as though he had not seen Lahallia step back, nor Orphael pull her back a few more steps, correctly perceiving her fear.

"This day, as all days before and after, is well known to me. There are no surprises to Dyus of Mytheria."

"Mytheria…the Faceted Endless?" Lahallia asked, memory jogging her. Her words came out husky, her lungs not wanting to work properly in the stifling atmosphere creeping in from the rest of the library. It was only as she stood here, further back, that she noticed the chains leading from Dyus' ankles and his wrists to the back of his chair. Clearly he was tethered there, though the chains did not look strong enough to hold a cat, let alone a man-shaped Daedra. The ankle chains glittered dark, almost black, the ones on his wrists golden.

Madness ore and amber, Lahallia realized with surprise. He was well and properly bound. "You are in a quandary. You seek knowledge, and it is not to be wondered at, Lahallia Kiranni, lately of the Apocrypha." Lahallia did not ask how Dyus _knew_, nor did she think he knew _everything_. Everything going on in the Isles, she would allow. But he was still a Daedra. He still had limits. "No mortal may sit upon the throne without the Staff. So here you are in my prison, seeking to supplant the one who placed me here."

"I thought the Greymarch destroyed everything in its path," Orphael frowned, still holding Lahallia close. He did not trust those chains, nor anything else about this…thing. He could not identify it, there was nothing _to_ identify, and so it should stay as far back for Lahallia as possible.

Dyus, unlike Haskill, did not seem to care who spoke. Lahallia wondered if he was glad to have someone to talk to, or if he was so steeped in apathy he did not register the difference between conversation and whatever ran through his mind on a normal day.

"Following each cycle of the Greymarch, Sheogorath has cast out or killed every aspect of Order found in the Shivering Isles. I alone have survived. Sheogorath cannot bring himself to destroy the knowledge that I possess. Instead, he has confined me to this place and forbidden me to die. I have not seen another creature until fate, predictably, sent you to me."

Lahallia resisted the urge to snort. Speaking with a being of Order galled her, though in this case, not because he was Orderly. It was the sheer arrogance of declaring he _knew everything_. Even Seers did not—the future was like streams of possibility, and it was hard to know when action or inaction would bring about this future or that. She chose not to bring this important fact into the matter, but she remained staunch in the belief Dyus was not as omniscient as he apparently liked to think.

Why did the Attendants go out _searching_ for knowledge, and the like? Because it always changed, always _expanded_. And he lived here, more cloistered than any monk.

"I don't have much choice," Lahallia answered. "What do I need to do?"

"I can create the physical shell of the Staff, but the divine essence must be gathered elsewhere. But, apotheosis is no simple matter and the creation of the staff is no simple task. I will require two items in order to complete it." Dyus showed no sign of wishing to continue, without prompting.

Orphael rolled his eyes at Lahallia's patience. This thing was a creature of Order, of course it would try to slow them up. _He_, he thought nastily, could certainly loosen that thing's tongue, and then they would _see_ how 'omniscient' it really was.

"What are they? We're running short of time." Lahallia shifted, the atmosphere of the Hollow pressing against her again.

Orphael looked from Dyus to Lahallia. As soon as she spoke, he had the uncomfortable feeling that he could fetch none of these components. That it had to be Lahallia who did it, otherwise things would not work out properly. Dyus' lengthy discourses made his head fuzz. Why couldn't Orderly things be succinct?

"The Staff is a tool of great vision and thus, requires the eye of one who has witnessed one of these unseen secrets firsthand." Dyus seemed to look out into nothing, his expression going slack, rather than its usual expression of steadfast apathy. Coming back to himself, he continued, as though having scryed the matter. Perhaps he had. "Ciirta resides in the Howling Halls of Mania. Find her and bring me the eye that has seen what no other has."

The thought of taking an eye from someone's head—it was too much to hope the eye was an artifact, like a jewel, or a Sigil Stone—left Lahallia queasy and uneasy.

"You will need a branch, a wooden base for the Staff. The trees and branches of this Realm feed from a deep font of madness and mystery. One of the oldest trees, the Tree of Shades, lies in the halls of Milchar. Milchar is a place of ruin, root, and mania. Go there and bring me a branch of this tree, but be warned, the tree will not surrender its secrets to one who has not earned them." Dyus fell silent, blinking slowly.

"Well, that sounds easy enough," Lahallia said to Orphael, who snorted in response.

"Sarcasm. A tool of the mortal races and lesser Daedra."

Orphael closed his eyes, hoping for patience. Dyus attitudes—or lack thereof—grated on his nerves. 'Lesser Daedra' indeed.

"The Staff may allow you to occupy the Throne of Madness, but understand that such a feat has never been attempted. All sources indicate that you will fail. It is a certainty," came Dyus encouraging sentiment.

Lahallia could not contain her distaste and mounting irritation. "I am one who Sees the future. Don't lecture _me_ about predictions and certainties, Order-thing."

"I also predict that this will not stop you from trying," Dyus answered back, unoffended by Lahallia's snapping retort.

Lahallia did not dignify this with a response. Unwilling to be drawn into debates about the Daedra and their omniscience (or lack thereof) she could certainly argue about Visions. But what was the point arguing with a stump?


	58. Chapter 58

Chapter Fifty-Eight: Milchar

--SI--

Orphael, with a presence of mind lost to Lahallia, brought a map of the Isles from the Mazken garrison in New Sheoth. Printed on cloth, it folded very small, small enough, at least, that he could keep it under his bracer. After a conference over the map, once outside Knifepoint Hollow, the decision as to which artifact to tackle first came out to Milchar, in northern Mania.

The choice of Milchar boiled down to three very simple reasons: Orphael wanted to get to Mania and get it over with; Lahallia did not want to carry around an eyeball—if she had the guts to remove it from the likely unwilling donor—in her pocket any longer than she had to.

The most decisive factor, however, was distance. Neither of them could reckon the amount of steady time it would take to get from Knifepoint Hollow to either of their destinations. Neither could predict how much time it would take Order to get to New Sheoth. Orphael hoped the entirety of both garrisons would be ready when, after visiting Milchar, he and Lahallia swung south to New Sheoth, which lay halfway between Knifepoint Hollow and the Howling Halls.

They reached the ruin of Milchar at dusk—though Orphael said he managed to speed travel up a bit, but not by much. Lahallia did not think it would take two days to cross the Isles, one end to the other, steady time with steady pace, but depending on which ends she picked, it might take longer.

She sure Order would not have enough imagination to try—or perhaps the capacity for—fast travel. Not when walking at a steady speed, sucking the life out of everything and possibly activating every obelisk in the area, was so much more logical.

The ruin of Milchar seemed to Lahallia a sad thing, like the passing of the seasons from autumn to cold winter. It was built with many subterranean levels, some of which were visible as Orphael and Lahallia climbed the many steps to the main entrance, corners glinting out of the ground here and there in odd places. From past the wall drifted the smell of water, which turned out to be a lake. A crumbling barrier wall held the waters at bay, keeping them from spilling over the entrance of Milchar and blocking it.

The dusk light touched the skyline, barely visible at the edges of the cloudy ceiling over the Isles. Even here in Mania, gray clouds hung like gloom, flat and lacking imaginative shapes. Give it much longer, Orphael thought sourly, and the clouds would start to seem like a plaster roof. But, he also pointed out, as long as the mushroom trees could spray spores, Mania was looking after itself all right. Spores were better than Order dust, even if both made him sniffle and sneeze.

The outer structure of white Mania stone still glinted in the failing light, before giving way to earthen passages and catacomb-like caverns within. This, at least, seemed congruous to a place where a massive tree was supposed to grow—although why a tree should flourish underground, without sun Lahallia could not guess. All she could do was write it off as 'some Isles peculiarity' and be satisfied.

The atmosphere below ground hung warm, moist and earthy-smelling. In fact, it was such a welcome change from the lingering memory of Knifepoint Hollow that Lahallia felt her disgust for Dyus and his presumptuous nature settle down. This place was like the heart of the Isles holding those few who strayed in close to its heart. Roots filled the place, massive roots, roots forming walkways—sometimes with heavy railings—or curling in archways supporting the weight of earthen hall ceilings.

No mortal-made structure could possess such intricate execution, and perfect balance. If wrought of marble, the place would seem presumptuous, but the living wood seemed a grandeur far outstripping even the White Gold Tower of Tamriel.

Despite the beasts of Mania who had—in the absence of living tenants—taken over the structure, Orphael and Lahallia found the place less like a ruin or cave fraught with battle and the removal of obstacles, and more like a nature walk with oversized bugs at which to swat.

The passages wound and delved deep, but magelights remained unnecessary, for the ceilings sported flame stalks glowing softly, sprouting from the ceiling, floor, and walls. The haphazard lights showed the way clearly, but left enough soft shadows to slip over and around visitors like black silken veils.

"Have you ever seen a place like this?" Lahallia whispered, as though fearing to speak out loud. Her voice did not echo, nor did it fade out, stifled by thick air. It seemed to hang, drift, then float to earth like a falling leaf, as though part of some natural progression.

"No, it's a little stuffy…" Orphael shook his head. This was _Mania_, what was he supposed to say? Still, the place had an almost shrine-like feel. If this was where a 'Tree of Shades' grew…it made sense. Did all these roots belong to one tree? Or were they drawn from others by the power of the tree?

The latter struck him as most likely. Anything with great enough power to contribute to a new Staff would undoubtedly exercise a great pull over wherever it was, to the point of forcing surrounding trees not only to lend their roots, but to direct their growth. Only in the Isles, he mused.

Finally, after winding through the complex until time and distance had no more meaning they came into a hall different from all the others. The passage leading to it was lined with so many flame stalks one could not step near the wall without crushing the plants underfoot—something neither Lahallia nor Orphael wanted to do. It would not seem like sacrilege, but in a place like this…something might take offense to squished plant life.

Unlike before, no shadows existed, forced out of the corridor like so many unwanted guests. At the end of it, they both stopped to stare. Even Orphael, used to the peculiarities and sights of the Isles, had to marvel at the sight.

They were beneath the lake behind Milchar. The center of the dark ceiling sported a glass dome like a chandelier, filled with water from above, held in place by many dark roots twisted protectively about the glass without obscuring it.

Light glowed from magelight crystals studded artistically across the ceiling, large as fists near the dome, shrinking to the size of peas farther away, like the glittering of a large star diffusing in the sky. The water in the dome itself was dark, signaling the fall of full darkness outside. The overall effect was to cast a green-blue light, restful and not at all eerie like the green-blues of Dementia over the room. During the day one could probably see the patterns of light and water in here.

Beneath the chandelier-like dome spread a pond, smooth as a mirror, reflecting the ceiling and light above as perfectly as if it were made of glass—but the smell of water indicated it was real. The air did not smell of water alone. Orphael thought he caught a whiff of the Waters of Oblivion, altogether different from the clear water of Mania, or the swampy messes of Dementia. He could smell its tang and feel the fierceness in it.

But the smell still did not quite belong to the pond—of this he was certain.

For Lahallia there was only the tree. The Tree of Shades did not live up to its name, not in her mind, at least. Its trunk was rose white, slender as a birch, but it spread its leafy boughs to the ceiling as if seeking to embrace the water above, like a maiden reaching out to some glorious dream. The leaves changed shape between the lower branches bearing leaves like willows, the middle boughs like those of maples, and the topmost like the delicate leaves of the aspen. All the leaves were a rich green, promising health and strength, without discoloration, yet without any sense of sameness. As Lahallia moved closer, without thinking, she could see the faintest glitter as the leaves began to rustle and sway, as if calling her forward.

Here, Orphael thought, was something for Sickly Bernice. She would never think herself ill again, the leaves smelled so wholesome. He took a moment before starting after Lahallia, but found that, while she moved forward easily enough, he could not, as though some barrier barred his way.

Lahallia's eyes widened as white flowers with golden throats, like roses and irises both at once uncoiled, adding something vaguely lemony to the tree. The scent and the sight of the opening blossoms drew her towards it, like a woman hypnotized. Her heart began beating slowly, her thoughts slowed as more and more of her attention focused on the sight, smell, and peculiar attraction of the tree.

Orphael could smell the flowers, but more than that, he could feel the spell they bore. They would draw one person, and one person only, the one to be tested. How he knew he could not say, except that it made sense. He was a Mazken. Jyggalag had once been his master, in what Lahallia called the Faceted Nameless, and Dyus called Mytheria. He now served Sheogorath here. He could not raise a hand against his master, either master it seemed…so Lahallia was not just the choice pick. She was the only pick. The Tree did not even register his presence.

"Lahallia?" He called quietly, as though afraid to disturb something lurking.

Lahallia stopped. Orphael sounded so far away…and yet she knew he was only yards behind her. She turned, but the draw towards the tree grew stronger. "What is it?" No sound of fighting compulsion as in her voice, though she longed to walk up to the tree, as though expecting it to speak to her.

"Lahallia, it won't let me through…" Orphael's heart clenched, cold fear settling over him. He could sense deception—Mania was never good at concealing it—the magical lure grow stronger. The tree existed for one reason and one reason only: to test anyone who got near it. Anyone who was not a Daedra in the realm.

Tests in Oblivion were never gentle. Not in this neck of the mushroom woods, anyway.

Lahallia made to walk back to where Orphael stood, but stopped. She reached up, pressing her palm flat against the air. No, not air, a barrier, something meant to keep her from going back. She could not figure out how to break it, even after standing there several minutes. Whatever it was, it lay within the power of this place, something she could neither alter, nor break. "Well, I can't get back…besides, it's a tree…what's it going to do?" she muttered to herself, unable to do anything but approach, "suck me into its trunk?"

She was not foolish enough to step into the water, but rather skirted around it, until she caught her reflection.

It was not her as she currently looked, dressed in armor, armed and feeling filthy. Out of the water, peered her own face, with her own body, but dressed—rather scandalously, in Lahallia's opinion—in a green gown, with sheer trumpet sleeves, and high slits in the skirt. No decent woman would ever wear a skimpy rag like that—though she did not doubt Orphael would approve of it, though perhaps not for public appearances. Dark silver jewelry, studded with dark green gems, almost iridescent covered throat and twisted about the pale head in a circlet. Intense, mismatched eyes accented by too much makeup above blackish-red lips gave her an unearthly look.

"Lahallia!" Orphael's shout broke the spell. Lahallia threw herself toward, tripping knee-deep into the water. The fragrant smell of the tree was gone, as were the white bark, the strange change in leaves, and the flowers. Now it towered menacing black, many of its bows delving into the earthen roof towards the water above, flapping and rustling in a nonexistent wind.

Standing behind Lahallia was…her own double. Nearly exact, the only difference between the two lay in the Shade's eyes, green like the leaves of the tree, and a black tattoo-like tracery of leafy ivy twisted around the outer edge of her left eye socket to her cheekbone. Her own copy of Malice drawn, Lahallia knew her stumble forward into the freezing water had saved her from losing her head.

Malice leapt free of Lahallia's scabbard as she faced the Shade.

Orphael tried to smash the barrier separating him and Lahallia, but failed.

Lahallia danced back, plainly trying to call him to her side via summons, but the barrier prevented it. Desperately, he began trying every trick, spell, and Mazken ability he had to break the barrier, though deep down he feared this thing was older than any Mazken, rooted so deeply in the Isles that nothing he did would make any difference.

It would take Sheogorath to break the rules this leafy menace operated by such absolute rules. If indeed he could—some rules were absolutely absolute.

Lahallia grit her teeth as she sent the Shade tripping into the water, as she struggled to get out of it. It numbed her feet right through her boots. A spell to freeze the water locked the Shade in place, but the Shade sunk its sword into the ice, freeing its hands.

Diving to one side, Lahallia fell clumsily as the shock spell, powerful and widespread, slammed into a wall. Forcing herself to her knees, she shouted the word for a fireball, but the spell slammed into the Shade's hastily erected shields, melting the ice.

The Shade also missed its sword, which slipped beneath the water. Without wasting time in searching for the blade, the Shade made a slashing movement with its hand. A summoned weapon of wood and steel—or so it seemed—appeared in its hand.

Lahallia now understood why the tree bore the name 'Tree of Shades'. She could deduce, even as she parried another volley of quick sword blows, that this Shade was no more powerful, and no less so than she, herself. Otherwise it would not be a proper 'shade'.

Lahallia planted her feet, using a twist-parry to send the Shade's arm arcing up and over. The Shade struggled to keep hold of its sword. It jumped back as Lahallia turned her sword expertly, redirecting the parry into a lunge.

Orphael sagged against the barrier, exhausted from his futile attempts to get past the barrier. Every trick he knew, everything that might make any difference left him leaning on the barrier, sweat dripping down his skin in buckets.

All he could do was watch as first Lahallia, then the Shade gave ground before losing it again. From here, he could only tell them apart by the swords they carried, and could only watch helplessly. It was worse than anything, the sheer helplessness of his situation. The only up side was that the Shade and Lahallia seemed evenly matched—though how this could end in anything but a stalemate he did not know and could not guess.

Lahallia and the Shade suddenly both gave ground, the same voice from two sources, chanting different words filling the room.

The power whipping through the air of the two, no _four_ distinct spells made Orphael nauseous, though whether this was fear for Lahallia or a result of the magical currents mixing with the innate power of the room, he could not tell. All he knew was if either of these powerful spells hit—the other two were shields—the one hit would probably disintegrate on the spot.

Lahallia called spell she considered her best bet, knowing her feeble shields would not stop a similarly powerful spell. They _would, _however, take the edge off one. The only difference between she and the Shade were the tactics employed. They knew the same things, but the Shade could not read Lahallia's mind, or anticipate all actions. And there was only one Lahallia could think of.

She only hoped it worked.

The fire spell, the same one she used in the corridor at Brellach, leapt from her, searing the sleeves of her robes to cinders and raising the hem several inches in her haste to complete and launch the spell.

Orphael watched in horror as Lahallia's spell went wide, missing the Shade by inches. The Shade's ice spell hit Lahallia full on, knocking her back, slamming her to the ground. Her shields had not stopped it, and he could not see whether those same shattered shields slowed the other spell or not.

He was too busy watching Lahallia hit the ground, where she lay still, rimed in frost, to pay attention to anything else, until the Shade screamed.

Lahallia's spell _had_ gone wide, but purposefully. Lahallia had not aimed at the Shade, as anyone would expect her to do. She aimed it at the Tree itself. Flames burned in a vertical wall, as though the Tree itself had raised a shield.

Her shield _had_ worked, though not as well as she hoped. A great deal of power went into fortifying them once the flame spell rocketed at the Tree, but still the effectiveness left much to be desired.

Lahallia, feeling half-dead, sat up as the Shade turned to watch the blaze so near the Tree of Shades. Raising one shaking hand, almost blue with cold, she spoke the only spell she had strength enough to cast. A bolt of lightning struck the Shade in the back, knocking it face first into the wall of fire.

Lahallia collapsed backwards, unable to care if her tactics had worked or not, as her mind hazed over. The smell of burning sickened her, as she lay prostrate, before the smoke gave way to the clean, fresh smell of lemony flowers.

Without seeing it, she knew the Tree once again looked like the curiosity that first drew her to it.

Orphael fell through the barrier as the Shade dissipated. Once again, the room seemed sanctuary-like, innocent and almost wholesome, but he ignored it.

Lahallia sprawled on the ground, breathing fast and shallow, still blue in the lips with cold. "Did I get it?" she asked, swallowing hard once she heard footsteps coming towards her from the entrance.

Orphael smiled as he knelt, gently raising her to a sitting position, holding the best flame spell he could conjure near her face, so the warmth could seep into her. "You got it," he answered.

"Don't…I'm okay," she nodded at the spell.

Orphael did not listen, until some of the blue began leaving her face. At that point, and only at that point, he hauled her to her feet, brushing her back free of dirt.

Lahallia let him, certain he was making sure she was not hurt. This time, as they approached the Tree, there was no trickery, or drawing force. In fact, the tree rustled pleasantly, as though applauding. Lahallia stopped short of it, by the pond's edge, frowning as to whether she ought to cut a branch, or look for one on the ground.

The tree rustled again, and a branch, the exact size she needed—or rather, the size she felt she needed—dropped right at her feet. Lahallia picked it up, looking at the tree, wondering if it was like a gnarl, only larger, and more treeish.

"Thank you," she tried.

The tree did not change the pitch of its whispering leaves. Still curious, Lahallia prowled around the massive trunk.

Orphael caught sight of something in the water. Drawing his sword he peered over, to find himself reflected back…but with an Order Knight at his shoulder.

"Orphael…"

He turned, hurrying over to Lahallia. He would never admit to seeing such a thing, but it unnerved him. Hearing the story of his origins was bad enough…seeing hints was worse.

Sprawling at the tree's base was a patch of thick, springy turf, devoid of roots. Strange, all the rest of the grass in the room was thin, completely unlike this. "You think it's an invitation to stay?"

Orphael looked doubtfully at the tree. "No. I don't trust this Tree…" a leafy switch slapped him on the shoulder, as though insulted. The blow did not hurt, but it was too much to call coincidence. "…on the other hand, I don't think you'll get far like that," never mind that he felt magically spent.

Lahallia threw herself onto the grassy turf, heedless of the discomfort of sleeping on grass and hard earth. The Tree's leafy rustling grew quieter, almost like the lulling sound of the sea. A moment later a Mazken arm flopped about her, pulling her snugly against him.

He still did not trust the Tree not to pull some sort of trick, like the barriers again. And he liked having her close.


	59. Chapter 59

Chapter Fifty-Nine: The High Command's Conference

--SI--

When Lahallia and Orphael reentered New Sheoth, after passing the night in Milchar—and feeling much rejuvenated for it—they found the city in a state of preparedness shocking to them both. The garrisons had arrived from both Pinnacle Rock and Brellach. With the increase in numbers, patrols through the city increased as well.

The first thing Lahallia did, however, upon her return was get a bath. She felt she could not live with herself in her unwashed state a moment longer. She might be getting into the swing of a militant atmosphere, but she _did_ like being clean. The cold water helped wake her up, for the night at Milchar was short, due to the need for haste—but rather pleasant for all that briefness. Dinner was more like snacking during a meeting, for as soon as she was clean she wanted food and to confer with her officers, electing to do both at once however inappropriate that might seem to some.

She told no one where she and Orphael had gone, only that it was a matter is Isles security, which was enough to appease any Mazken or Aureal. Upone entering Sheogorath's throne room, Lahallia handed the branch from the Tree of Shades to Orphael. "Hold this, please." Orphael took it, and tucked it under his arm, like a riding crop. No one said a word about this exchange, though many wondered at it.

Discreetly an Aureal, the one she realized, she had summoned via the spell to do so awarded at Brellach, went to stand behind her, several feet to Orphael's left.

Lahallia's orders about preparing a war-room were followed to the letter. A long table stood down the middle of the throne room, with paper, charcoal pencils, maps, charts, and supper for Lahallia. The rubble from the hole in the ceiling was gone, and the same hole now sported a waterproof swathe of fabric, firmly anchored on the roof. Bright magelights hung above the table sent white light pouring down from above. There was a chair placed for Lahallia's use, but she ignored it, setting it out of her way. Before speaking, she picked up a piece of bread and ate it quickly, to still the hunger pangs which would distract her, at the moment, from any serious planning.

Once her stomach no longer felt so empty, her head cleared enough for her to think rationally.

Orphael, had had both bath and food before the meeting started, but had little part in the actual discussions. Keeping an eye on the branch from the Tree—knowing its importance—and unspoken permission to attend the meeting made up for his lack of participation.

"Haskill? Were the High Commanders chosen?" Lahallia demanded, looking down the rows of Aureals and Mazken, a line of each standing one or the other side of the paper-laden table.

Orphael felt a strange sense of déjà vu as he stood there, on Lahallia's left, behind her shoulder.

Haskill stepped up to Lahallia, setting down a sheaf of papers before her. "Yes, Your Grace. Defense plans and evacuations were agreed upon by the High Commanders—the Auren and Autkendo. These were implemented prior to your return, particularly the evacuation. I hope they have not overstepped themselves."

"I like a little initiative," Lahallia answered dismissively. Haskill stepped back obediently, unobtrusive and therefore ignored by everyone present. He was not a military mind, just a detail person. The notes, headed with red or green seals to indicate affiliation looked remarkably similar—which meant the Auren and Autkendo's plans were not at odds, except with regards to the order of priority for certain plans. "Well, let's get this council underway—where are my officers?"

Everyone present knew she meant 'officers' in an extremely narrow sense.

"Auren Zudeh, at your service," the Aureal standing directly to Lahallia's left announced, saluting crisply. "The Aureal guards are fortifying the city, there is a watch set upon one of the crystalline spires in the palace courtyard. The fortification of the palace, and plans for emergency evacuation from it, are also underway. Nearly all citizens have been removed from Bliss, and sent northeast to Highcross. We are confident Jyggalag's march will have to move from west to east, due to proximity to the Gates. We also doubt he will waste time chasing civilians when his staunchest foes are here." She waved to indicate the palace.

"Autkendo Jansa, Your Grace," the Mazken woman stood taller than the others, directly to Lahallia's right, opposite Zudeh. "Pinnacle Rock is as fortified as its name implies. The bulk of our strength arrived at dusk yesterday. It was a hard march, but we pooled efforts to fast travel…with limited success. It's still possible, but draining, and not at all reliable."

"We noticed," Lahallia nodded. Apparently Jansa intended to make a more thorough report than Zudeh. The effort to ignore one another, and so maintain an atmosphere of cooperation, filled the air as obviously as a swamp smelled of swamp.

"Crucible is also being emptied, though we are having to devote much time to checking for boltholes. The citizenry in Crucible are good at having those. The rest," she pulled a map from the table, leaning over to lay it out so Lahallia could see it, "are in Highcross," she circled a point in the far northeast with a charcoal pencil. "I've had to send a unit of Mazken in order to ensure there are no problems with the Manic and the Demented citizenry in such close proximity."

"We've done so as well—they're under strict orders not to interfere with the Mazken guards, and to remember where their priorities lie," Zudeh supplied quickly, her golden eyes flickering from Jansa to Lahallia.

"Good, I'm glad to hear it." Lahallia frowned at the map, taking it in in its entirety, searching for the next point of importance. "Where are the Howling Halls?" Few of the landmarks bore titles nearby, though Lahallia's assumption any Mazken or Aureal would be able to point out a landmark in their region of influence proved justified.

Jansa turned, with an air of propriety, addressing the officer whose province knowing places should be. A show, Lahallia thought dryly, of team cohesion, and a demonstration she could trust the Mazken to have the best possible personnel for each division, thereby decreasing the possibility of flawed information. Lahallia did not care, so long as her question was answered promptly and correctly. "Intelligence?"

Another Mazken, this one particularly thin and angular, hurried over, taking the pencil from Jansa. "The Howling Halls are on our watchlist—we have reason to believe they're full of Heretics. Here," she marked a landmark in southeastern Dementia.

"Heretics?" Lahallia looked to Orphael for an answer.

"Heretics are the closest thing to dissenters we have—but they keep their heads down, and their activities constrained to living in harmless enclaves. They know if they make trouble, a unit would be detached to stamp them out. Mostly they live in Mania, and it amuses Lord Sheogorath to keep them." Orphael shrugged. Having little use for Heretics, he did not question Sheogorath's prerogative—particularly as the Aureals usually had to deal with them.

"Exactly," the Mazken intelligence officer continued as soon as Orphael finished speaking. "This group actually lives in Dementia—so we kept a close eye on them. We know the ringleader of the Howling Halls sect is a woman by name of Ciirta—but Lord Sheogorath, up until now, has forbidden us to hunt the Heretics down as we ought." The officer grimaced, but did not otherwise express her distaste for the order to leave such trouble to fester in Dementia.

No one flinched or started at this bold declaration that Sheogorath was making a poor choice—a hint, Lahallia thought, of Sheogorath truly having ceased to be. No Mazken, or Aureal, would be so bold if he still sat upon the Throne of Madness.

"Do we have numbers?" Lahallia asked, frowning at the Howling Halls. They lay exactly where Orphael's map said—though with all the things going on, how could she be expected to memorize it? It took Lahallia a moment to realize this was the exact same map, only larger and of better quality.

"That does raise the other point," Zudeh tentatively eyed Lahallia's face, looking for clues as to the Duchess' mood and state of mind. All she found was composed concentration. "There is a concern the Heretics might take advantage of the current chaos. It's a chance they could scarcely pass up."

"Fortunately they operate in small enclaves, not as a whole," Jansa pointed out. "They can do little. Perhaps burn a town if they feel adventurous…or Order might slaughter them." Her tone indicated nothing but hope that Order would save the Isles a lot of trouble when they began reconstruction if it did. No one would discuss the possibility of losing in this war—there was no point. They all knew how it would end.

Or at least, they thought they knew. Lahallia, Haskill, and Orphael knew better.

"Any more specific numbers?" Going to the Tree of Shades was one thing. Going into a hostile place, such as the Howling Halls, with only Orphael was quite another. They were a good team, but her last robe's singed sleeves let her know how unwise she was to use that spell too often, especially if concentration became compromised. And why have an army if one could not use it? A small unit here and there would hardly compromise city and palace security.

"Not too many. Two units should be able to handle cleaning it out." The Mazken intelligence officer shrugged, pursing her lips. "What are you thinking, Your Grace?"

All eyes fixed on Lahallia with such intensity as might have made her uncomfortable, once. Now, she simply ignored it, as she thought seriously for a few moments, nibbling gently on a thumbnail meditatively as she did so.

"Can we spare two units—one each of Mazken and Aureals?" Lahallia asked, taking the charcoal pencil and the closest article she could find with a straight edge before marking Milchar and measuring off the distance to New Sheoth. As she calculated in the margins of the map, both the Auren and Autkendo considered, running through mental lists, before consulting handwritten ones.

"If it's one unit for each, yes. I don't think seven soldiers will make a difference, particularly since I assume this mission is not one of long duration." Lahallia shook her head, her mouth a thin line as she tried to listen and calculate at the same time, succeeding in doing so only through sheer willpower. "Right now it's all shoring up of defenses, so we can afford to send officers with you," Zudeh announced. "The best we have. I should like to volunteer."

"Denied—I want my Autkendo and Auren here. Confer and make joint decisions in my absence." Lahallia paused her calculations, "if you need a referee, ask Haskill, but I hope you won't…do we know where Jyggalag is, within the Fringe? Where his base camp is…"

The silence that fell made Lahallia look up. Her expression grew grey, then grim. "He's not there anymore, is he?"

Jansa cleared her throat, feeling obligated to answer, Dementia's high commander to Dementia's Duchess. "Scouts Order mustering as the bulk of our forces left Pinnacle Rock. They're here, gathering and organizing themselves." She took the pencil form Lahallia, and drew a circle after marking Pinnacle Rock. "This is Vitharn, and it's always had a nasty reputation. The citizenry don't go there. Neither do we—Lord Sheogorath had it sealed ages ago."

"We think Jyggalag's arrival here, in the Isles, tore whatever bounds kept his men from mustering here, forcing them to amass in the Fringe. Or maybe the bindings failed when he tore his way into the Isles…or kidnapped our lord. There is an Obelisk of Order there. We think that's how he's drawing his Knights in from the Fringe, they're certainly not coming through the Gates," Jansa's intelligence officer supplied. "We thought the Obelisks would spill Knights like beans from a bucket, but instead they seem to have all deactivated."

"They'll activate once he starts the Greymarch in earnest…fortifying his position as he sweeps forward." Sucking the life from the Isles, fueling his conquering march, and most importantly form a tactician's standpoint, preventing anyone from getting behind him. This was why it was called the _Greymarch_—it left grey lifelessness in its wake. Lahallia clenched her fists until her fingernails dug into her palms.

Orphael listened as Lahallia asked for several more details—mostly about the Howling Halls—when she was not fussing with calculations, by now scribbling on the back to the Autkendo's paper of appointment. Leaning closer to read over her shoulder, he saw numbers and realized she was using their trip from Knifepoint Hollow to Milchar to approximate how long it took to get how far, and therefore estimate how long they had before Jyggalag could be at New Sheoth's doorstep.

"Can fourteen make the fast-travel work?" Lahallia asked, frowning at her calculations. They were right, she'd worked them twice, and if she did not get moving _soon_ Jyggalag could make it back to New Sheoth before she could get to Knifepoint Hollow and back. Safest to assume the Order Knights did not need to sleep.

"To some degree," Zudeh answered. "Shall I have a unit form up?"

"Yes, you too, Jansa," Lahallia said as though she had not paid attention to the question. Jansa and Zudeh both snapped to their New Sheoth garrison captains—Oloria and Yrlaine—to from up a company, which the captains were to head. "Would you say the fast travel, when it works normally, would be twice the normal rate of travel?" Lahallia asked.

"Yes, at the very least?" Zudeh answered, after a moment of contemplation. "We don't usually think in terms of time, when travelling, Your Grace."

Lahallia marked one and a half into her calculations. It all depended on how fast she could have the Howling Halls cleared. Doing it alone was not an option. An idea struck her, remembering one of Sheogorath's more lucid instructions, and a general rule for magicka. "Haskill—can _I_ force fast travel?" Lahallia looked back at him. If the rules of magicka still applied, power had to go _somewhere_, and Sheogorath's empty throne would cause a power vacuum—for Jyggalag could not use Madness' based powers, hence the need of the Greymarch to convert the realm from Shivering Isles to Nameless Facet.

Haskill understood what she mean. "At this point I believe yes. I do not doubt you could speed up your Mazken and Aureal fast travel, with an exertion of rightful authority. You're the only remaining Duchess in the realm, and with Lord Sheogorath…gone…" Haskill did not betray the fatal secret, but the hitch in his voice was unmistakable, earning glares from Lahallia and Orphael both.

"But you're not sure?" Blast him for not knowing the important details…he was supposed to be a detail man, very detail oriented and a smart dresser! Lahallia scowled at Haskill, ignoring the moment of nonsense. They tended to pass faster if she took little notice.

"No, I'm afraid not, Your Grace. I don't fast travel, myself, but I am certain your retainers could instruct you. _If_ you asked." Haskill took no more pleasure in pointing these things out to Lahallia than he did in putting up with Sheogorath's ever-changing moods.

It occurred to Lahallia that she never _did_ ask much of anything about fast travel, assuming she was precluded from it…unless Sheogorath was in the mood to do it for her, as upon the return from Cylarne. Perhaps that changed with her appointment to Duchess. There was once a time when she would have questioned everything under the sun, but no more. She seemed to have lost the knack for it. "

We'll work on it as we go," Lahallia grumbled, throwing down her pencil. "Two days. Maybe three, if he left at noon, and Jyggalag will be at or near our front gates. He'll move slower than we do, because of his Knights, and he'll want to have them all present before her starts off, or starts his attack on New Sheoth."

"How do you know?" Zudeh asked, surprised.

"It's the logical thing. It's what _I_ would do. He knows things aren't going according to plan…he needs time and distance to remain constant, for the sake of Order…but he doesn't think you people can calculate time and distance, predicting his arrival," Lahallia trailed off. Two days, it was safer to err on the side of caution and give him more time in which to travel.

She had two days. Never had two days seemed so short, or containing so much to do. "Redouble the guard surround the obelisks in the courtyard. We know Knights spawn from them, and I don't want anyone sneaking in." Ambushes might be unorthodox, but they were logical. She just hoped he could not send his whole army through all at once. "Destroy them if you can."

"Immediately, Your Grace." Again, both the Auren and Autkendo spoke respectfully and acted promptly.

Orphael could scarcely believe the two factions were working together so…well. Of course, Lahallia was the only leader they had to look to, and she was certainly worth following. Perhaps some good had come out of her long imprisonment within the Apocrypha. He would not have been able to calculate a rough timeline for impending events, but the information was useful. More than useful.

"Your Grace," Oloria arrived first from choosing her troops. "Your Mazken unit is ready for travel, they're waiting in the courtyard."

"The Aureals as well, Your Grace," Yrlaine called, following Oloria in. "We're ready to go."

Lahallia nodded, deciding grimly that desperate times called for desperate measures, and this action would further solidify her ability to lead the Aureals as well as the Mazken. To show she had what it took—though it beat against her conscience. The justification of eradicating a potential threat—and sending a warning to that threat's faction—did not ease her mind. "Excellent. We're going to clear the Howling Halls—doubtless word will get back to the Heretics that we have plenty of time to deal with them, despite the crisis." Was there a way she might be able to convince Ciirta to…

But the thought died before she finished it. _Convince_ a Heretic, to give up an eye to wave the Realm? Impossible. "I will finish Ciirta myself. I will be very…_disappointed_," the word rose gooseflesh on all necks present, except her own and Haskill's, "if she is killed before I can do it myself."

The Mazken all grinned appreciatively at this bloodthirsty wish. The Aureals gazed at Lahallia in shock, not having expected such a personal involvement from the Duchess. Yes, she meant to go, but to want to strike the killing blow to the leader of the dissenters…that was something else.

"Of course, Your Grace. It's only fitting," Oloria beamed. "Shall we go?"

"Yes. Orphael…and you," she nodded to her Aureal attendant, "you're both coming. Stay close."

Orphael nodded, as the Aureal saluted. Both stayed close, close enough that Lahallia wished she'd not specified distance so explicitly.


	60. Chapter 60

Chapter Sixty: Halls and Hollows

--SI--

Lahallia's presence did, in fact, tip the scale in the traveling party's favor. Enough so she felt confident in opting to take Orphael to Knifepoint Hollow immediately after cleansing the Halls, while ordering the others to return, and continue the fortification of New Sheoth. She hoped Order moved slower than she gave it credit for, but did not hope too much.

Surely Jyggalag knew she would try to reconstruct the Staff, to try and stand in Sheogorath's place. It was the only logical thing—from a certain perspective—for her to do. Ambitious, probably futile, but what else was there? The mortal will to survive would not permit simply waiting for death to come in a march of gray dust and crystal.

Did the completion of the Greymarch hinge upon the destruction of those holding the ducal seats? The were, after all, the last vestige of authority in Sheogorath's realm, once Jyggalag manifested. Lahallia shoved the unpleasant notion aside, returning to uncompromising facts and solidly grounded conjecture.

Jyggalag must doubt she could re-forge the Staff and take up Sheogorath's position. Frankly, and admitted only to herself, she had not reconciled herself to the idea, either. She would have to deal with this quickly, but she could not leave out the pressing matters, which would follow. Like Order's march, the impending problems would not pause to give her time to think. She had to multitask, and how she did not overlook any major details.

The only benefits to her position in the scheme of things she could see—aside from the speed with which she and her forced arrived at the Howling Halls—was either Order would take the easier way to New Sheoth, swinging far north through Mania, or have to take the swampy way, which meant no cutting cross-country.

Both ways had natural obstacles, which might be difficult to traverse. Mania's rolling terrain would daunt anyone, forcing an army to take the road, or lose valuable time, but the road ran the long way around. Dementia was not much more conducive to speedy travel. Heavily armored soldiers would sink into the mud, and tireless or not, that would slow them down more than taking the road.

Jyggalag might be orderly in his purposes and actions, but she was sure he was not a fool. Nor would he split his forces, half taking the Mania Road, half the Dementia Road. The pincer movement against New Sheoth might cause the defenders great trouble, but divided forces meant the possibility of an amassed army bringing the fight to one or the other, depleting the invaders' numbers enough to, perhaps, force Jyggalag to rethink his position, and wait for his men to return from the Waters of Oblivion.

With Lahallia as an unknown variable, one foot in Madness, the other in Apocrypha Order, equipped with logic and ingenuity, Jyggalag could not afford mistakes.

The Mazken and Aureals moved fast, clustered together as they were, Lahallia marching between the two groups as she cogitated over what came next and worked to keep the units moving faster than they would on their own. The trick was to focus on destination, to _will_ it to come closer, while willing the place one was leaving to move farther behind, and between pushing and pulling oneself between two points come quickly to the desired destination.

In this way, the Isles obliged the Mazken and the Aureals in normal times. In these troubles times, the land moved grudgingly, even for Lahallia. But more willingly for her, being a Duchess and closer to Sheogorath than any Mazken or Aureal.

The Howling Halls were built on a hill, or perhaps, they were built on a plain later shaped into a hill by Sheogorath's fancy. Either way, it looked lopsided, and as though it would be derelict, if not for the Heretics hiding there. Lahallia's stomach quavered as she and her soldiers stopped their forced march well back from the doors before marching up to them at normal pace. Weapons in hand, with clear orders and Hungers on tethers, prepared to unleash the beasts on those inside, the clear-cut action seemed ensured by virtue of the plan's simplicity.

And without sign of a sentry in or around the Halls, the likelihood remained that no one knew the soldiers of the Isles were coming. Perhaps someone already knew about the upheaval in the city—best to assume so, Orphael thought—and the Heretics were simply hunkering down to brave the onslaught.

They all waited for Lahallia's order, like trained hounds. Orphael glanced at Lahallia, now flanked by himself and the Aureal attached to her summoning spell. She looked paler than usual, but resolute. He looked away, mentally shaking his head at the woman she was now, as compared with the one who entered the Isles.

Her Visions had certainly ceased to be such a nuisance—so much so he would argue vociferously in favor of the theory that fear of such things made them worse. Or perhaps it was the Isles accommodating the Duchess. She certainly seemed to think less and less of whether something would trigger Visions or not. More weighty matters obviously edged this ingrained concern to the periphery.

"Open the doors," Lahallia commanded, her voice low from nerves. Gripping Malice, she took a steadying breath, forcing dispassionate objective assessment in direct defiance of the quiver in her stomach.

Was there a reason why they were called the Howling Halls? If not, there would be after today.

Yrlaine and Oloria moved forward, drawing the doors open.

Lahallia committed herself to her chosen course of action. "Send in the Hungers. We'll let them start the panic, then follow ourselves." It would give the Heretics inside something to shoot at, rather than her Daedra. The Daedra were too valuable right now to waste—particularly with their headquarters sealed off, and the impending march of Order through one or the other of the countrysides through which the Daedra would have to walk to return to the palace.

Surely none would want to stay holed up in their stronghold when the Duchess and the realm were in such danger, and crisis.

The Hungers, released from their leads, bounded without thinking twice into the Howling Halls, hissing and lusting for blood. Their noisy progress echoed back to the soldiers waiting in the gray daylight, shortly before the screams and shouts started. This was a lucky pack, Lahallia thought grimly, no nasty Order Knights, just fleshy mortals. Here was a chance, if nothing else, to see the difference between happy Hungers and a hunger tantrum.

"Let's get this over with. Remember: I want Ciirta myself." It only seemed right for her to take the component herself, if she was to do this. Otherwise, the staff might not work, and they could not afford such a disastrous occurrence.

The Howling Halls brightened as magelights blossomed in the air, again white, bright, and constant. The Halls stonework bordered between ruinous and merely decrepit, but were almost spotless, in a way underground ruins should not be. Someone put serious effort into maintaining cleanliness.

"This place smells like death," Lahallia's Aureal escort announced, tightening her grip on her sword. Golden eyes shifted this way and that, ready to pounce on any sudden attack aimed at the Duchess.

"Yes," the word came from Lahallia's mouth in a low tone, still so unlike her usual voice. She did not like the idea of hunting down a human being like this. She knew Ciirta by description, thanks to the Mazken intelligence reports which indicated Ciirta was a very old Imperial female. Even the justification of Ciirta being a Heretic, and therefore outside the law's protection did not help Lahallia much. This was the mortal nature: 'us' versus 'not us', in which 'us' was the most important.

Lahallia shook her head sharply, dispelling the nearly word-for-word memory of that passage. She had hated that book of philosophy particularly.

Orphael saw the play of expressions, ranging from worry to disgust, playing across Lahallia's face. Unfortunately, he could not ask if she felt all right without taking away her face before the Aureal staying by her side. It would seem as though he had no confidence in his Duchess' mastery of this situation. He did, however, bump her elbow with his.

Lahallia perceived the unasked question, shaking her head dismissively. No, she was not feeling all right, but that would pass. She hated the justification 'the ends justify the means'. The attempt to convince herself the good of the many outweighed the good of the one did not help either. It boiled down to one mortal wanting to survive more than the other. The Daedra would come back, she could not.

Still, of all her excuses and justifications, the dubious legal position of Ciirta and her followers—she could cite possible sedition and impending insurrection against the established authorities—gave her some legitimate reason to do this, aside from needing Ciirta's eye.

By the time the Daedra met resistance, Lahallia shoved aside her doubts in favor of more a more proactive means of surviving.

The Heretics proved adept at putting up a fight, summoning creatures to combat the Hungers, once the sudden invasion's element of surprise wore off. They peppered the Daedra with destructive spells, leaving cinders and icy spots on the floor, mingling with those cast by the Daedra themselves.

The Mazken retaliated with brute force, while the Aureals exhibited more finesse but were no less deadly.

Lahallia found herself in the middle of the fray, the screams of wounded Heretics savaged by frenzied Hungers echoing in her ears as she swung with Malice in one hand, using her off hand for spellcasting. The savage fury of the attackers' onslaught slowly forced the Heretics to give way.

She could not afford to let them stop her. The Isles could not afford to lose this battle. And she could not waste time with these pathetic efforts to thwart her. Redoubling her efforts she drew out the most complicated spells she could safely wield in this sort of fast and furious environment—for the way the corridors here twisted made it easy for the Heretics to fall back, and issue forth from another corridor. The place seemed quite labyrinthine.

And as the intelligence gatherers had not previously gone through the Howling Halls, they had no clear idea what they were walking into or where they needed to go.

When it became apparent to the Heretics that they were no match for the Daedra and the Duchess, they fled. The Daedra, caught in the heat of the battle and a determination to prove, even on some small scale, the superiority of one over the other to the Duchess, would have followed had Lahallia not intervened. "No, no! We're here for Ciirta! Let them go!" The Greymarch might take them, anyway. Certainly they would not forget this attack, and might decide it was time to leave the Isles—if they could find a way to do so.

The invading force plunged deeper into the Howling Halls, bumbling about for a few corridors until they finally kicked in a door to find Ciirta and presumably her second in command. Both wore long, white robes, and had the look of martyrs going to their deaths, only to have their names spoken throughout history, and so live on long after their mortal shells gave way.

A nice thought, but Lahallia doubted it would play out this way. Ciirta would simply fade out of the records of the Isles, such as they were, wiped from the minds of the Daedra as they died and returned.

The first Mazken through the door took a spell to the chest, dying on the spot. Orphael grabbed Lahallia, thrusting her to safety, towards the rear of the column as the Aureals and Mazken flooded in. The male Nord went down quickly. Before Lahallia could fight her way into the room Ciirta screamed.

The Mazken and Aureals backed away hastily, surprised, uncomfortable, and sending glances to Lahallia, trying to gauge her reaction was. Only Orphael remained where he stood, calm and unconcerned. _He_ had not violated Lahallia's orders, in fact, he had made her job much, much easier. And safer, which was most important.

Orphael, having slipped forward as quickly as he could, stood over Ciirta, who lay pinned to the floor, his sword through her robes, but a bloody slash across her belly. Deep enough to wound, but not fatal. The sword ensured enough pain to keep her from casting, but she was still very much alive.

Lahallia walked forward, her mouth set in a thin line. She raised Malice, but an Aureal tapped her arm, handing over a dagger. It would come in handy when getting the eye out—blue eyes, bright blue.

Sheathing her sword, Lahallia knelt, ignoring the look of hatred on Ciirta's face. The slash to the Imperial's throat, and then the brutal stab to her heart caused cheers to go up from the Mazken.

Everything went silent when Lahallia pulled a small bag from her belt, carved out Ciirta's eyes—she would not risk 'bringing the wrong one'—and put them into the bag. Standing up, she put the bag back on her belt, looking the ruined face with a war between nonchalance and disgust raging. "Oloria, Yrlaine," her voice came out calm, as though nothing strange had happened. "Take the units back to New Sheoth, and wait for my arrival. Orphael and I have another errand." She handed the knife back to its owner, with a perfunctory word of thanks.

"And me, Your Grace?" Lahallia's Aureal escort, to whom the knife belonged.

"Go with them." Lahallia turned and started out of the halls, Orphael hot on her heels. They both heard Oloria and Yrlaine snapping orders as they left. "Are you all right?" Orphael asked, once he was sure none of the others would hear him.

"I don't know. Ask me if we survive the Greymarch." Lahallia honestly did not know, nor she did notice how little the bodies of the Heretics, some still being gnawed by Hungers, bothered her. They might as well have been so many heaps of meat, and the smell of blood thick on the air just the smell of an overcrowded marketplace. Not an enjoyable scent, but tolerable.

Orphael nodded, but knew not to simply take her word in this instance. He sheathed his sword, and wrapped an arm around Lahallia's shoulders, comforting and protective, but not insultingly so.

Lahallia appreciated the gesture. She patted his hand with the less bloody of her own, steeling herself, intending to fold the ground before her feet if stubborn willpower could do it.

They stepped out into the sunlight, and Orphael let her go, hearing the sounds of armored boots hitting the ground. They stepped off to one side of the entrance to the Howling Halls and consulted Orphael's map. "We're going to cut it close," Lahallia breathed, biting her tongue in worried thought.

Orphael said nothing. They _were_ cutting it close, there was nothing else to be done.

Lahallia took hold of his arm. "Let's go. As fast as we can."

Orphael put his hand over Lahallia's. Both took a step forward, focused on leaving the Howling Halls and arriving at Knifepoint Hollow. Lahallia watched her feet. The ground always seemed to move faster if one looked slightly behind oneself while walking. The illusion worked the same here. Orphael, more practiced with this method of travel, kept them going in the right direction. The Isles disobligingly tried to hold him back, to make him act…normal. Normal was a good word.

It could not lump the Duchess in with her Mazken, and so they made better time than ever before. And they needed every moment of it. Thank goodness some rules stuck, with or without the rightful Prince in his rightful place.

If it were not so, the Isles would fall apart without Jyggalag's help.

--SI--

Dyus' surprise actually showed on his weathered, pale face when Lahallia swept into his prison like a whirlwind. Her face flushed with the effort of moving Orphael and herself, even with his help, and with the fear of coming back to the Palace too late, her temper flickered with discontent for fuel.

Lahallia produced Ciirta's eyes, and the branch from the Tree of Shades, holding the stick and the bag up with an 'I told you so' look on her face. Orphael smiled grimly. She had every right to say 'I told you so', particularly to Dyus.

"You have the items. Contrary to all prediction. Once again, you defy the path set before you. However, what comes next is now unclear. If you wish to confront what is to come, I shall create the Staff for you." Dyus' tone remained impassive, but he could not, through long lack of practice, hide his shock and uncertainty at being wrong. Altogether wrong.

"Do it," Lahallia hesitated before holding out the bag and the branch, fighting the pull of Vision Dyus exuded. It tugged at her mind, making her ache behind the eyes, as though some current tried with some success to drag her forward.

Dyus took the articles gingerly from her, careful not to touch her hands as he did so. But care was not enough. The bag holding the eyes slipped, his hand grabbing Lahallia's as he fumbled to catch the bag before it hit the ground. His chains clinked at the movement, but no one heard them.

Lahallia stumbled back, her voice strangled as she tried to scream, her eyes so wide they seemed to pop bulge in their sockets. Her whole body suddenly jerked, wracked violently with the throes of Vision. Orphael never saw them so bad.

He did not see Dyus' hands contract, as though in fear. It was all Orphael could do to hold Lahallia down, and try to insinuate a calming spell into her—but it did not work half so well as before, so strong was the trigger.

Orphael closed his eyes. Just when he thought she was free from this burden, Dyus had to go set it off again. Doubtless she would fall back into her old fears and the Visions would return with greater force and frequency. There was no reason to expect anything else…

…and he worried for her. More than was perhaps wise, but emotions were not always governed by wisdom. If they were, he would never have cared so much about a mortal. Any mortal.


	61. Chapter 61

Chapter Sixty One: Dyus

--SI--

"_Master, the Chessmen have failed," the Chamberlain's voice came calm as he stood to one side of Lord Jyggalag, as the Prince watched the advancement of the assembled Daedra's forces. _

"_Report to the battlefield immediately." No hint of emotion, no glimpse of a secret plan, which must lurk beneath the crystalline features, impassive as a mask._

_The Chamberlain bowed, not daring to ask what good he could do by entering the fray. It was not his place to question the Prince's prerogatives. Only…the Palace was lost. The Great Spire torn down into so many crystal shards and so much dust. He had no idea what the other Princes wanted with the shards, which they were apparently having half their Daedric forces scavenge. The Chamberlain had no opportunity to ask, or find out._

_Trust Jyggalag to abandon his capitol to save his pet project, to force the other Princes to string along their forces, thinning the ranks available to assault the Repository. A choice move, for no one seemed to have expected to find Jyggalag away from his palace, overseeing the Repository himself. _

_The Chamberlain turned, hurrying along. Order's stratifications would give him the opportunity to change most tides of battle, and Jyggalag was not even in earnest yet. Certainly the end results calculated out to Order's victory, as those poor chaotic fools must know. _

_But how could they? They saw only the Chessmen falling back, the great monuments falling under their chaotic, unregulated sway. The victories and progress made them confident. Overconfident. A trait not shared by the Orderly. _

_They did not know half Jyggalag's Chessmen were, even now, preparing to cross from the Faceted Endless into the other realms. The opposition would have to pull back, but even then, it would be too late. Much, much too late. Order was the strategist. That was why it would, must, win. _

_Jyggalag had considered the possibility of entering the fray himself, purging the disorder from the Daedra en masse. Yet, his mind, so like an abacus demanded, why waste resources if was not strictly necessary _

_Such was Jyggalag's mind, all things weighed to such a degree of precision it boggled the mortal mind, and those of many immortals. _

_But the situation still seemed hopeless, as the Chamberlain summoned his armor. Unlike the Chessmen, he had physical form past a dark gel containing a mind, a semblance of consciousness, and controlling the motor skills of the crystalline suit they wore. They shared a collective sub-conscience while in the Faceted Endless, all of them connected to Jyggalag's will. _

_There was no 'free will' here. Only Jyggalag's. His will governed all, with no degree of dissention. The whole concerted around orders._

_The armor enveloped him, reminding him again, as it always did, that he was one of the few Daedra permitted a face, a sparkle of individuality. Hefting his silver and crystal mace, he stepped through the Repository's outer wall, onto the battlefield, seizing the threads of control running between Jyggalag and his army, seizing direct control, pulling their strings. _

_Jyggalag's will governed, yes, but Jyggalag was not always concerned with details. That was the Chamberlain's_ _job, and he intended to carry it out. The Chessmen moved, breaking into their units as crystal gates sprang out of the ground, opposite the gates beyond the mustering grounds from which the enemy poured. _

_Crystal gates reared from the textureless ground like water monsters from the sea, for a moment reflecting the many, varied lands beyond. This was it, the final invasion. And the Princes, their armies, were trapped. _

_He realized the mistake too late—and blamed Boethiah for it. The crystal gates should have opened into empty palace courtyards, where the heart of a realm usually reposed. Without the realm's Prince in court to protect it, it should have been an easy matter to send the Chessmen across and poison the disorder with Order. Sameness. Unending flawless perfection. _

_What the crystal gates opened on were courtyards brimful of contingents of Daedra. The count of Daedric soldiers present on the battlefield was faulty—either from illusion, or from inaccurate information on numbers provided by Jyggalag's spies. _

_And Boethiah would expect a counterattack from behind…and so advised the others. _

_And Mora…it knew…It _knew _how the plan to leech the realms into submission was to be carried out…and it had shared the knowledge. For once in its existence, Mora _willingly shared knowledge. Mora_. The Chamberlain, even Jyggalag himself, should have expected this blow, but somehow…neither anticipated Mora deviating from one of its usual patterns of action._

_Mora hated sharing information, unless it got something out of sharing…well, there it was. It did get something out of all this. It got to keep its precious, oh so precious library. _

_The Chamberlain_ _tried to force the crystal gates closed, cutting off the reinforcements which would surround the Chessmen on both sides, but failed to do so. _

_The allied Daedra poured out, tearing into the Chessmen with grim determination, or bloodlust. Raising his mace he strode forward, swinging it at the air. He had to at least _slow _the influx! _

_Enormous crystal pillars shot up before the crystalline gates—the other Daedric gates were protected from Order's encroach, to his disappointment. Otherwise _they _would have found pillars __before those gates as well, more or less trapping them. Perhaps the resistance of the plane against rightful orders had to do with the proximity of the Princes, the drift of their own realms' power flowing into the Faceted Nameless like so much reek. _

_The pillars were not decoration. They were focus, drawing the power from the surrounding lands of Order in order to crush the gates closed. A Daedric convention, Order made more use of it than anyone else. _

_Suddenly a strong arm, clad in black silk gloves caught his neck in the crook of its elbow. The inexorable strength indicated too clearly it was one of the Princes, slipped cleverly away from the others, unnoticed. With so many bodies gathered before the Daedric Gates, it was no surprise someone managed to sneak across the lines. _

_It _should _be no surprise, but it was. _

_He arched back, eyes wide as _pain _seared through him_. _He should not feel pain like this…he should feel _nothing_. _

_A sinister laugh, like_ _cold fingers creeping unwelcome over warm flesh._ "_Get used to it," Mephala's voice came clearly through his helmet, as though he was not wearing one at all. She twisted whatever she had stuck into him, giving him a good dose of what _pain _felt like, before pulling it out, throwing him to the ground. The battle broke out again, the pillars blocking the crystalline gates shattering to rain down on the battlefield, lacking his will to maintain their shape and function. The crystal gates remained half-open, the attempt to close them ended prematurely as it had, allowing the enemy Daedra to pour forth undaunted to face the Chessmen._

_Mephala, loomed over him, her lean, lithe form clad in tight black leather, buckled and belted within an inch of its life. Only a Daedric prince could wear such a thing and be able to move. A shroud of thin back material wrapped itself hood-like over her head. A silk mask obscured the lower portion of her face, above which her pitiless black eyes, black without whites held him. _

_In one of her hands she bore a whip, in another, a lethal-looking object, the one with which she stabbed him. He did not much care about the short swords—or very long daggers—her other two hands held. The instrument, which would have held his attention, had Mephala's pitiless gaze not, looked like something Mehrunes Dagon would come up with, and it bore his own silver blood. _

"_Don't waste time! Get it out of here!"Hircine's voice sneered as he flashed past, a blur of vicious energy. _

_Over the din of battle, the loud barks and savage growls of Clavicus Vile's hound, Barbas, came clearly. Even into the bloodless, fearless existence of the Chessmen, the barks seemed to demoralize them, or stun them. _

"_Mph," Mephala did not do things in anyone's time but her own. She sheathed one sword, reaching down to drag her prey up nearly by the throat, so he hung suspended from her hand like a ragdoll, her fist closed about the neck of his armor. "Mora and I have _special _plans for you…"She lowered him until his feet touched the ground, her face so close he could feel her breath through her mask, and his own helmet. Daedric Princes were not bound by normal rules of armor protecting the object of their ire. "I hope you like pain, pet," she whispered, the silk crinkling over a seductive smile, "because you are going to suffer…just like your master." _

_He was bleeding fast, his essence seeping away—a sensation causing the barest flicker of…_fear_. He did not answer her, even when she dropped him on the ground, grabbed his wrist and dragged him through the fray back towards her own gate, using her whip to clear her way—and sword or branding iron when the whip did not work. _

_He knew once he closed his eyes that he would never again be what he was now. Jyggalag had no use for faulty things—he would be back in the crystalline armor before long, and never remember being the Chamberlain. It almost made him _feel _disappointment. _

_--_SI--

_He was cold. So very cold—it penetrated his bones. And it was dark, too. Usually he did not fear the dark—he only knew of it from context as the absence of light. It was not something which translated itself in the Faceted Nameless. _

_But he could sense something crawling in the darkness. His heart pumped hard in his chest, or seemed to feel that way. Something cold clenched a stomach, even as a frantic heart pounded against bony ribs…and fragile flesh stretched over all, covered in sweat and gooseflesh. _

_This was not the Waters of Oblivion, nor was it existence inside a crystalline suit of armor. The thought returned the sensation of cold trembles. He did not like it. He did not like this body. It was…_fragile.

_He forced himself to think of something else. This place _felt _Daedric…he spread a hand, a five-fingered hand with nails and knuckles, on the darkness serving as a floor, trying to divine to whom it belonged. _

_The Apocrypha. _

_His blood—for he knew he had blood for his heart to pump—went cold. Yes, he had served as Jyggalag's emissary, set up the Knowledge Leeching, deployed it, all under Hermaeus Mora's nose…but Jyggalag should have conquered. _

**Kill it. **

_He swallowed hard, almost choking on the simultaneous gasp, further fear seasoning his being. The sentiment voiced did not come from words, or any sound, it simply _was_._

**Kill it now. It sickens.**

_He closed his eyes, bracing for the blow, shivering in the chill and with fear. A fear amplified by the very newness of the sensation. _

_The sound of hard heels on the floor. Looking up he found Mephala standing over him, her mask pulled down about her neck, her lips, painted a vivid crimson curved into a smile. "Did you sleep well, pet?" she squatted, running cold fingers through his downy hair, twisting them around the strands. "Are you…frightened?" All said with cruel amusement and sadistic humor. _

"_Fright," he answered as tonelessly as he could manage, "the human response to situations of heightened…" _

"_Tch, tch, tch," Mephala clicked her tongue as she tightened her grip, pulling his hair so his head canted back. She produced both the branding iron and a dagger, the latter of which she rubbed up and down on his throat, letting him feel the sharp chill fo the blade, but not the bite of it. _

"_That's not right. This is no time to quote meanings at me. If you _beg_, I'll be pleased. If you try to _bribe _me_, _I'll be very pleased. Trust me, pet," she yanked hard on his head, pressing the flat of her dagger against his bottom lip, as though preparing to push his mouth open with it. "You want me in a very good mood." She flicked the dagger back without cutting him, and let his head fall forward. His neck muscles ached as he lay still._

_He would _not _play along. But the shivers became convulsive shudders._

"_I'm not very fond of Mora here…and he detests me…but there are rules everywhere. And blood matters."_

**Kill it. It sickens. It dared encroach upon _this _realm. It cannot be allowed to exist. **

"_You're so hasty, Mora. Just sit there and wriggle, I've got better plans…" she shifted, kneeling so she sat on his stomach, examining the branding iron. Her weight remained incongruous with a woman her size—tiny by Dunmer standards. Tiny in comparison to himself, but at the same time she seemed to crush the life, the very breath out of him. "I'm going to send you back to your master, pet," Mephala said. "You like to know things…perhaps you would like to know what this is?" She tapped the iron against his cheek. _

"_This little beauty is one of Mehrunes' toys. He wants them all back, but I think I'll keep mine. It could come in handy, you know. It gives us the power to affect _changes_. It was used to great effect in _changing _those irritating little Knights of Jyggalag's into something more harmless. _

"_It changed _you _enough that Jyggalag couldn't save you, didn't it? I rather like the change," again she twisted her fingers his hair, "So, you're not _really _his anymore. You're lucky Mora's less vindictive than I can be," Mephala leaned forward, two hands wrapped around the hilt of the branding iron, which she pressed into his chest, enough to bruise the flesh into which it dug. "You would make an interesting toy for awhile, before I decided to string you up by your heels somewhere uncomfortable."_

_He did not say anything. He would not humor her. She was Mistress of Lies and Deceptions…you couldn't trust her. _

_Mephala shrugged as though hearing the thought, but dismissing it out of hand. "I'd love to draw this out, but I can't afford to keep you. You're one of Jyggalag's, and so wanted. You know how the old rules work." She stood up, leaving him gasping, able to draw proper breaths again. _

_Strange water suddenly began to drop from stinging eyes as she struggled to breathe. _

"_Do it, Mora." Mephala adjusted one of her gloves primly, "Azura says some of the others are getting bored, and you know how that goes." Sanguine hated when parties were delayed for what he perceived as no good reason. _

_The once-Chamberlain shouted in pain and disgust as tentacles whipped out of the darkness, wrapping about his limbs, stretching him as though he was on the rack. Above him his own tool, the same one used to leech the Apocrypha loomed. _

_His eyes widened at the sight of it. _

**You wanted knowledge. You stole what belongs here. You may have…a copy. If you can survive it. **

_Mora sounded sulky, if that were possible, but at the same time amused. It would take time to recover the information leeched out of the Apocrypha, but not forever…and Mora, being the patron of knowledge, would be able to duplicate such a thing…_

_The once-Chamberlain's voice filled the void as he screamed, the crystalline artifact spearing him like a fish. It seared in his brain, knowledge, thoughts, minds…and Mephala severing the last attachment he had to the Faceted Endless, left him drifting in pain and dying agony before seeming to cauterize the severed threads which once bound him to Jyggalag, and the Nameless Facet. _

_He lived…but was not tied to a place_. _Nor to a master…_then_, only then, he perceived what was happening, could feel the lap of the Waters of Oblivion around the former Faceted Nameless._

**You wanted knowledge. Have it. For the whole realm, have it. _Forever_. **

_The pain still burned in his limbs, trembled in his mind. "We'll take you back to _dear _Jyggalag soon, pet…very, very soon…then you can meet your replacement."_

--SI--

"_There is one more detail, my lord." _

_The voice sounded similar to his own, yet not: toneless, lacking inflection. His eyes drooped, his posture sagged. He managed to force his eyes to open for a few flickers, to find himself still fleshy, dressed in grey, black and silver, supported between two Daedra._

_He could feel the threads of Order, ragged ends of a previous existence waving from each of them, independent of the new bindings. But they were no more Chessmen than he was the Chamberlain. The Faceted Nameless was gone, gone forever, replaced by this…this…haze of madness. _

_His hair hung white and limp before his eyes. Through its curtain, he could see a prim Breton, bald and dressed in black standing beside an older man…a man with Daedra eyes._ _The once-Chamberlain knew, instinctively, that this was all of Jyggalag there was left, only the total chaos of a shattered mind. His head fell forward, nearly to his breast, he gave up trying to stand. _

_Further water leaked from his eyes as something heavy, cold and frightening dropped into his stomach. _

_The Daedra's face contorted. "And here," he announced, his voice distorted, accented and angry, "I'd thought I'd gone and forgotten most of this rubbish. What did you bring _that _back here for? Didn't Mora want it? Though…he doesn't generally collect _Daedra…'_cept by using that blasted Trap of his…make a note, Haskill: Mora doesn't get _my _Daedra! They're _mine_, and I want to keep them where I can see them."_

"_Yes, my lord. Lord Hermaeus Mora and Lord Mephala sent this back to you. It is yours—all that remains of what went before."_

"_And how much is all?" The Daedric Prince's voice lowered. _

"_The whole of the Repository. I believe Hermaeus Mora made a copy—but doubtless that copy is incomplete. Your former self did, of course, find out many things, and vested them in his Chamberlain. Lord Hermaeus Mora will eventually realize this. This Daedra's knowledge is very valuable…and very dangerous." _

"_Well, he's mine now…my problem, and I don't want it. See to the details, seeing as you're a detail-man. I want it hidden…put away," the voice grew menacing. "I don't want to see it. I don't want to hear it…but I don't want to kill it. I want it to _live_, in case I need it. But not where I can trip over it when I don't." _

_The Daedric Prince perked up with inspiration, snapping his fingers. "I have it! _My _Daedra can't be completely sane! This isn't the place…I want their _memories_. Once they die, they can't have them back! _He _can have them, remember them for my Daedra…and me, if I ever need them. They will __pass through the Water, lose their former life…and he gets the leftovers. It'll come in handy, I daresay…so he really needs safekeeping…bury him deep…deep underground. But keep him alive, oh yes…I don't want him giving out anytime soon. _He _had no use for faulty things…and I have no use for Orderly ones." _

_The Daedra struck him with a staff, planting the butt end of it between his eyes. Memories, ideas, knowledge roared into the once-Chamberlain's mind. A mind he thoguth already crammed too full of information, but here it was, the Prince's commands pumping further knowledge into the once-Chamberlain's overstretched mind, filling empty places he did not even know he had. _

_Cold chains snapped about his wrists and ankles, burning the Order still pulsing through him. Stuck in limbo between two masters, his mind began to submerge beneath the weight of information, knowledge and memories. _

"_Now…" the Daedric Prince commanded._

_A cold forefinger touched the once-Chamberlain's brow. The once-Chamberlain never felt the hairline cracks run through his mind, and his sanity. _

--SI--

Lahallia opened her eyes, her face slicked with tears and cold sweat, sitting propped against Orphael. Dyus still sat on his chair, but his head hung bent, his eyes half-open, sweat beaded on his forehead. In his hands he held a staff, the exact duplicate of the one Sheogorath always held.

Deep-seated pity swelled in her heart, but she said nothing as she got to her feet.

Dyus looked up, holding the staff out to her. His head seemed too heavy for his neck to support. "The Staff gives you the right to rule…not necessarily the authority." He sounded defeated, as though he knew what it was Lahallia saw, had relived it himself. Perhaps he had. "Take this to the seat of power in the Shivering Isles. There, imbue the Staff with power from the Font of Madness. Soak the staff in the waters of the land, and it will open its full power to you."

Lahallia plucked the staff from his hands, feeling power coursing through it—but reluctant power. "I'm sorry." She could think of nothing more to say.

Dyus did not respond, but closed his eyes, seemingly weary beyond enduring. Plainly he wished them only to leave and let him brood in silence.

Doubtless he felt the skewing of his predictions as to Lahallia's premature death unsettling, to use the mildest term possible. Or perhaps he had almost forgotten hat last battle, and the aftermath thereof, only to have it unearthed so violently.

Lahallia, troubled over his existence, left Knifepoint Hollow. It was cruel, too cruel. And she could do nothing, not so long as Sheogorath's decision to keep Dyus alive remained. For she felt certain she could knife him as many times as the sun ever rose over Nirn and it would not kill him.


	62. Chapter 62

Chapter Sixty-Two: The Breath Before the Plunge

--SI--

The poignancy of Dyus' plight haunted Lahallia all the way back to New Sheoth. Whatever _he_ might think, she remained convinced he was as crazy as anyone else here…but like those others did not realize it. It was ironic.

Who _would be_ sane, after how many hundreds…_thousands_ of years awake and alone, with a constant, near-constant flow of information into a mind cracked in order to hold it all? Doubtless Sheogorath had little idea of what his former chamberlain had suffered. Doubtless Jyggalag hardly cared—it was beyond his capacity.

It made Lahallia want to shake them both and shout. Daedric Princes were not known for kindness or in many cases fairness…but this left a bad taste in her mouth.

"Lahallia…look."

Orphael's voice did not quake, but Lahallia took a deep breath of shock bordering on horror. Previously there was nothing about strange the scenery except for the ceiling-like gray clouds. Now, all along the long road from Vitharn, slowly, silver shafts of light began to appear, lighting one by one like warning beacons. One every few minutes, in a steady progression, yet for all the light they gave they did not seem to brighten anything that light touched. Light only for the source.

And doubtless Mania was experiencing a march of similar pillars, which did seem to shoot up right to the clouds, as if holding them up from smothering the realm. Maybe that was how the game ended, with the clouds falling to choke all life…?

Lahallia's inner librarian was less concerned with the end and more interested in the apparent origins of the title _Greymarch_. It was not just the march of the Order Knights on New Sheoth. It was the act of Order systematically sucking the life out of the Isles to fuel its own agenda—hence the lightless state of those brilliant pillars.

"Sweet jam on toast…" Her voice quivered, and broke as her stomach dropped, lurching violently.

The gibberish of the utterance meant nothing more to Orphael than if she had invoked something a sane person might use. The tone was enough. The silver shafts of light solidified, turning faintly silver, but remaining bright as they leeched the essence of the Isles in earnest.

Lahallia knew the pillars had to spring from the obelisks, the true Crystalline Spire risen from the ruins of those studded throughout the Isles, smooth, cylindrical, and to her mind, menacing. The complexity of the plan, the contingencies and fail-safes the other Princes used to turn these Isles into a prison, which the prisoner could conquer before finding himself back at the starting point was brilliant.

Lahallia understood with a flash of blinding insight, more about the Crystalline Spires than anyone except Dyus. The crystals were not merely leftovers from the Faceted Nameless, which Dyus called Mytheria. They were the contentiously shorn fragments of Jyggalag's _Great Spire_ in the Faceted Nameless. Not the palace, or the Repository, but the Spire…

The Daedra disassembled it on orders from the Princes for a reason. They…they…

Lahallia inhaled, her eyes widening as the last pieces of the puzzle clicked gently into place. Orphael clutched her arm, thinking it was the onset of Vision. However, Lahallia's gaze and intensity of expression indicated she was still only thinking.

The Order Spires sucked the Madness right out of the Isles, just as Dyus used them to redirect the power of the Faceted Nameless in that last battle—she'd known this about the little spires and obelisks for awhile not. Power had to come from somewhere; this was an accepted fact of magical academia. Storms generated lightning. Fire generated heat and light. Water turned waterwheels. Magicka was generated by living things—though only a few had more than a spark.

In this case, Order's power came from what the Spires drained. These pillars, however, did not just _drain_ Madness. They reworked it, using that which the small Spires had already sucked free during the early stages of the Greymarch to change their shape and purpose on Jyggalag's command. Once drained it changed back into what it once was.

"Lahallia?" Orphael gave Lahallia a shake.

Lahallia shook her head. Too bad there were no records of these Daedra Wars in the Apocrypha…or were there? They would have been interesting reading for any party fortunate enough to come across them. It also explained several of Hermaeus Mora's peculiarities.

Her smile vanished, replaced by utter horror. The Spire outside New Sheoth was not yet a pillar, nor even a silver shaft of light—which would doubtless have a greater capacity to drain at New Sheoth than anything else…especially of these Pillars functioned as a whole growing stronger as more and more manifested as solid crystal, and not simply beams of light.

"We have to get into the city," Lahallia's voice came out husky with fear. They had little time. Too little time. And there was nothing the Mazken could do unless she showed some real hustle. Faster than she ever hustled in all her life.

Or it was all over.

Gritting her teeth she grabbed Orphael sending them sprinting for the Bliss entrance—the closest way into the city.

If, she calculated as they moved faster than walking-speed, faster than sprinting, the two Obelisks in the New Sheoth Palace courtyard activated…that was how Jyggalag managed to get in, and represented the end of the game…or did it? No, there had to be something else…but they _were_ they way in. Those two crystalline formations were not just Obelisks. How had she failed to notice when they were so glaringly obvious? They were bigger than any other spires, like two great teeth…but they seemed smaller because of the terraces and stairs. Who cared about Obelisks when having to hurry up or down those pointless, overabundant stairs?

Which answered her question.

Doubtless those two Obelisks were not just draining influences. They where the basis for the Gate Jyggalag would use to enter the Palace—he and all his soldiers. No battles for the walls, no risk of losing many of this troops, just a simple, easy way to get in, slaughter the Daedra, and asserting control over the palace.

--SI--

Order's armies were forming up, facing New Sheoth in neat ranks and files, sixteen soldiers to a unit, four units to a division. No doubt on a level plane such a thing would have looked frightening enough, but with the Knights having to stager themselves to avoid the marshy swamps their numbers looked far greater. Lahallia had no glimpse of Jyggalag as the Aureal guards tossed down ropes.

The gates to the city were sealed, there was no other way in except the as yet un-manifested Crystalline Gate, and climbing up the wall. Lahallia scaled the rope with some difficulty, with Orphael keeping level with her. If she struggled any more, she was going to lose her grip, fall off, and come to a quick and terminal stop.

The only god thing, he thoguth acidly, was that here on the sheltered side of Bliss, the Order Knights could do little about the two dark shapes struggling up the wall.

Autkendo Jansa and Auren Zudeh met Lahallia halfway to the Palace, reaching down to help drag her the last few feet. "Your Grace," neither bowed. In a situation like this, speaking politely was the best anyone could do. They had no time to waste on pointless formalities.

"We attempted to have the Crystal Obelisks in the courtyard destroyed, but we had no success," Jansa continued.

"Nothing will shatter them, not all the magicka of all the units in the courtyard, working for a steady half hour. We pumped enough magicka into them to flatten an army, for all the good it did," Zudeh finished bitterly. Unused to meeting with such staunch failure, her mood was anything but sweet—as her soldiers knew too well, thought was not currently aimed in their direction. All she could do was wait for the last battle, and work out her frustration there. Order Knights _died, _and killing Knights would certainly be the perfect way to vent.

"It's all right. You can't break them, but it was a good idea to try," Lahallia answered grimly. She appreciated the effort, though, so long as it did not mean fewer fighters for the upcoming battle.

Jansa and Zudeh were too experienced of soldiers to let fighters be spent on Crystalline Obelisks—and all the Daedra present were spoiling for a fight, contained in a small space with too many people with whom they were usually at odds.

Both Daedra caught sight of and gazed at the Staff as Lahallia claimed it from Orphael. He had not trusted her to get it safely to the top of the wall, not with all the trouble she had on the ropes.

The Staff of Sheogorath no longer resembled an eye and a stick, nor did it resemble the previous Staff. Anyone could see it had a sharp point, perhaps the length of a longsword, perhaps a little shorter. The wood spiraled and twisted one about the other, deep red and deep green, with round amber and green stones ornamenting the crown, supporting a purple orb, like glass but dull as dishwater.

Even if they could not feel power exuding from it—to them it was little more than an ornamental stick—they knew what it could become. Despite everything, it remained a frightening prospect, the Staff of Sheogorath in the hands of this mortal—capable leader or not. But capable leader that she was, no one questioned Lahallia to her face.

They understood, now, that something worse than capture had befallen their Prince. For the first time in a long time, both Daedra felt a sense of fear, as though they were children lost in a dark, wild place.

Lahallia did not waste time helping them to sort things out, or giving them the full story. Seeing the worry on their faces she took off at a jog for the New Sheoth Palace, with Orphael at her shoulder. "Where's the source Dyus spoke of?" She demanded as she ran.

"I don't know," Orphael answered, wishing he did. "You'll have to ask Haskill." And hope he answered the question succinctly, though Orphael did not add this last. He enjoyed showing a certain amount of contrariness to most people, but felt no inclination to be so now. Not to Lahallia. Not under these circumstances.

If they lived, there would be other opportunities to exercise his infamous contrariness. Ways with the possibility of interesting results for the both of them.

At the base of the stairs in the New Sheoth Palace courtyard, Lahallia summoned Haskill so abruptly he lurched on the landing. Ignoring the tired Mazken and Aureals grouped around the Crystal Obelisks, many casting disgusted looks at the artifacts, Lahallia scowled at the Chamberlain. "Where can I empower this?" She demanded, holding the staff out as if using it to forestall some kind of attack.

Haskill eyed it for a moment. "I would tell you...but there is a problem."

"Yes, and it'll be _your_ problem if you _don't_ tell me." Lahallia grabbed Haskill's shirtfront, leaning forward so they stood eye to mismatched eyes. "_Right now._" They did not have time for Haskill's silly games. One would think he _wanted_ Order to win.

Haskill did not smile, but approved Lahallia's forceful determination, a go-do attitude mostly found in mortals. "I'm trying to, Your Grace. But even I need to breathe, and you have a very…very firm grip."

"Work around it."

Orphael grinned devilishly at the back of Lahallia's neck, as the Auren and Autkendo waited uneasily, shifting like nervous hawks. _This_ was the way to manage Haskill, it had to be. His grin faded as he glanced over his shoulder. The pillars stretching to the sky were closer.

"Lahallia, hurry him up," he prompted uneasily.

"Ksst," Jansa hissed. _Would_ Orphael ever learn courtesy? She doubted it, but this was no time to instruct him, for Lahallia snapped her fingers plainly indicating if Jansa said one word there would be a new Autkendo in three seconds or less.

And _that_ Autkendo, Jansa decided, would probably be Orphael. Unacceptable, so she held her tongue. She did not see where the Duchess got patience for dealing with Orphael, who usually reveled in contrariness. Nor did she understand the Duchess' apparent _liking _for Orphael.

Orphael did not antagonize his superior, but he would have liked to—though he cursed himself for forgetting to call Lahallia 'Your Grace' while visible in public. But what did it really matter, with Order on the doorstep? He could not recall ever feeling _fear_ quite like this—knowing that if Order prevailed…his eyes lingered on Lahallia, as he abandoned that extremely depressing thought.

"It's better I show you, Your Grace, if you are in haste." With unusual strength—but great care not to hurt her—he disentangled Lahallia's hand from his shirtfront. Tugging his clothes back into their proper place, he started up the stairs to the Palace.

"Jansa, Zudeh!"Lahallia's sharp tone snapped both Daedra, who had followed her to the palace, from their reveries, shattering the hopelessness they were so unaccustomed to feeling. "This is where it's going to happen, where the final battle is going to take place." It was strange to see an Aureal blanch, perhaps because Lahallia was used to seeing it every so often with Orphael.

"Here? How?" Zudeh desperately tried to recover her composure, but failed. Nothing like this had ever happened in her experience, and suddenly she felt very vulnerable. Mortal, almost. How did the poor, finite creatures _stand_ this fragility? This sense of limited time ticking away from their lives?

"Those," Lahallia pointed, "aren't Obelisks. Their Gate pillars. Redouble the guard, forget the walls. If that gate opens, Jyggalag and all his forces will pour in through there. It's easier than going through the city." And referred to a pre-established plan, which was just like order. Forget thinking up something new—go with that it knew.

But it had to have more adaptability than that…which must be whatever Haskill was worried about, if she could call it worried.

The emotionless little toad.

"Get all your men in here, both of you, and get this place locked down." Lahallia hurried up the stairs after Haskill, Orphael in tow. She could not turn to anyone for reassurance. Despite her commanding presence, deep down, crammed as far away from thoughts centered on what needed to be done, part of her cringed in fear of what was going on. She never fought a battle, she had no previous experience…and yet, here she was.

She would have liked nothing better than to imitate Syl: let her Mazken handle the hard work and hunker down in some forgotten chamber, weeping for fear.

But she could not do it. _She could not do it_. It was unconscionable.

Haskill stood behind the throne in the throne room, off to one side.

Lahallia hurried over to find the tree at the end of the hall, which she had always taken for granted as just another article placed by Sheogorath's whimsies had changed shape. Or rather, she suspected she was simply seeing what was actually there, while previously she saw only what Sheogorath wanted her to see.

Now, cradled in the roots, hidden by the throne, sprouted a fountain, right out of the floor, made of unornamented stone. The dark noxious-smelling waters of Dementia, and the dancing sparkling golden ones of Mania flowed freely from the top, spilling and mingling like oil and water in the tiers of basins.

Or tried to. Order crystals, no longer than her forearm crowded in the lowest tier. Even as she watched a crystal sprouted from the upwelling of waters, blocking it. Then the whole fountain went dry, as though it had never held water.

"That is the problem," Haskill noted as Lahallia gazed, shocked, at the fountain.

Though not so much because the fountain no longer flowed—the water had to come from somewhere to begin with, and she remembered the two sources of water from the Vision. Her time on Oblivion gave her enough knowledge of how such realms worked that she remained convinced these two fountains had to be _somewhere_. Things like that did not just go away—not in Oblivion. The surprise came from Order's audacity of having used the same ambush tactic twice—though perhaps varying the 'how' of it.

"How did they get in?" Orphael asked, wondering what, _exactly,_ the Order crystals in the Fount of Madness meant for the realm as a whole…and shuddering at the answers he came up with.

"Thadon." Lahallia did not even need to think about that. If Syl had a secret way out of the palace, surely Thadon had one—though perhaps not for the same reasons. It occurred to her, only now, with one such symbol in her hand, that Thadon had not given up his symbol of authority. The Isles, however depleted, still recognized him as the Duke, whether his allegiance remained to Sheogorath or not.

"How did _he_ get in?" Orphael's voice contained more snap than was desirable, though he realized it too late. The question sounded much similar to his first question, but Lahallia and Haskill both understood the change in context.

Lahallia ignored the sharpness, in favor of more pressing matters. Goodness knew she had showed her fair share of sharpness today. "Well?" she prompted.

"As goes the Font of Madness, so goes the Realm. Soon we will all be serving a new master. Once the source of Madness becomes the Font of Order, Jyggalag has won," Haskill announced.

Lahallia nearly dropped the Staff. "The fight's a blind…" the realization made her want to call Jyggalag out on the field of jellied seals…and the thought did not strike her as strange in the slightest. "Where is it?"

Haskill did not show any surprise that Lahallia knew there was more to it than just what he showed her. Perhaps she even Saw some of these things during her time here, which at least made sense as to _her_ appointment as Sheogorath's champion. She could learn quickly in a time where quick learning was needed. "You will have to enter the Fountainhead beneath the tree," he motioned to the tree, "and find the source of the poison."

Lahallia strode around the tree, finding a door snuggled against the roots, like a cat in a comfortable armchair. "Orphael?"

"What is it?" He did not like the distanced tone in her voice.

Lahallia touched the door. "I don't think you can come with me."

He was getting tired of that. "Why not?" Lahallia opened her mouth, but Orphael cut her off. "Every time things get dangerous…what's the good of having me follow you around, if not to keep you out of trouble?"

Lahallia reached up, placing her fingers against his mouth, a little hurt by this, despite the fact she knew he meant it in a caring way. "Orphael, please…we've got to hurry…" She looked at the door. "It's the heart of the Isles. It won't be a huge place."

"Large or small, it's probably already crawling with Order Knights," Orphael protested, not forgetting Lahallia's capability in dealing with those.

"No, I don't think so. Not yet, anyway. Order _priests_, now…"

The cry went up from the courtyard. "That'll be the Spire outside the gates," Lahallia took a deep, calming breath. "I don't think the heart of the Isles will permit the usual varieties of Daedra to enter…but if you can, fine. Otherwise…" she shook her head. He could make his own choices, he did not need her to try to think for him.

She opened the door and ducked through it. Within moments she knew she was right: Orphael could not follow her where she was going. This was a test, a test for her, and her alone. She could not put into words how much she wished it was otherwise.


	63. Chapter 63

Chapter Sixty-Three: The Font of Madness, Part One

--SI--

The door closed behind Lahallia with a sound of quiet finality. The dark earthen tunnel reminded her very vaguely of the winding, twisting path to the Tree of Shades, but managed to seem wholly different for all that. The tang of Daedric magicka filled the air like nose-stinging fumes, asserting itself in every breath, in every blink of her eyes.

The rustle of water, which ran in carved niches in the walls. The water looked like real water, though Lahallia did not have to touch it to know it was the same stuff found in the Tree of Shade's chamber. Stopping to think of it, she realized none of the water she ever encountered in the Isles seemed like Nirn-variety water—there was always 'something more' to it. Was it, after all, a mix of normal water and diluted _this_? Perhaps a little of the Waters of Oblivion mixed into it?

This was not the time to wonder, though if she had the time she certainly would have.

Where the Tree of Shade's cavern gave an impression of safety and comfort, this place felt _wild_, untamed, unfettered. The last free place in the Isles, as if, while Order tried to encroach on the land, madness tried to flee, a last place in which to barricade itself.

The smells and sensations she associated with Mania and Dementia magicka filled the air as well, mingling in a mind-hazing miasma. No Order Knight could survive here for long, if the air remained potent with madness—but mortals might.

Lahallia did not summon a magelight, but waved a hand before her eyes as she drew Malice. Her vision washed blue, giving both eyes the characteristic telltale signs of a nighteye spell. Better not to give the Order Priests anything to attack until she was ready. If Order thought it could plan better ambushes than _she _could, it was highly mistaken.

As she followed the corridor, angling steeply downward, the air grew more stifling, until she felt as though she was wading through water instead of air. Strange currents teased at her clothes or tugged at the loose hairs at the back of her neck. The deeper she went, the more Order Crystals, mere shards but a definite presence of Order, poked out of the earth like hopeful plants struggling towards sunlight.

Here she had a stroke of luck, one Order did not intend. The Order Crystals, exactly like plants struggling towards the sun, strained and pointed off towards the source of power they wished to leech. The tunnel suddenly forked. The Order Crystals pointed in the direction of the tunnel closest to it, though the crystals here were smaller than before, as though newer. Crystal sprouts.

Which meant Order Priests probably seeded them as they moved through the corridors. The crystals might be small now, but they would grow. She picked up her pace, taking the right-hand tunnel. Dementia was always on the left—and she had a fifty-fifty chance of finding Thadon down here. She could not predict a Manic—he might see to poisoning his own side of the Fountainhead, or he might poison the Demented side as a way to get back at her for killing Syl.

Thadon was taking this _far_ too personally.

_She_ was about to begin taking things personally. And Thadon wouldn't like it.

Adjusting her grip on Malice, she reminded herself yet again _not_ to use any flame-based spells down here. Doubtless the roots would take such a thing _very_ personally.

My, how many people and things were taking many and varied actions personally today.

She heard the Order Priests before she saw them, chanting in monotone—presumably to fuel the Order Crystals they were trying to grow. Surely a place like this would resist the intrusion of Order….but even this place could not hold off a dedicated assault all by itself.

That was where _she_ came in. Lahallia smiled at the thought: a dose of black dye into Order-clear water.

The stale magical signature of Order grew stronger, previously hidden by the torrent of madness-magicka smells. Peering craftily around the curve in the tunnel, Lahallia counted her foes, taking in the font as she did so.

It was, as she expected, the same fountain from which the Mazken sprang at the very beginning, when the Isles became the Isles. However, it did not gush up from the ground, or if it did, the source lay hidden beneath a marble effigy of Sheogorath kneeling, holding a long, flat platter-like basin.

His eyes glittered Mazken green, and his teeth, bared in an ugly snarl, were silver fangs—or at least, the upper teeth were. Held in his muscular stone arms was a long platter-like basin. The statue seemed to be vomiting, the Waters of Dementia glugging from the open maw, hiding the lower teeth from view.

The waters did not splash gracefully, but spilled like blood from the basin onto the floor, separating into stringy threads of goo. The waters snaked along the floor, crawling across the ground into the trough carved into the floor near the wall, around the circumference of the room, and running out of it again.

Lahallia's fingers tingled this close to the Font of Dementia, power searing in her veins, as though the waters recognized someone tied close to them. Or rather, an artifact tied to them. Glancing at the jewel set in the band she received another shock, the reason the lands recognized her as a Duchess, why she felt so powerful in this room above all others.

The ring's jewel was not a solid jewel, as she first thought. Even now, it glowed within, revealing itself to be simply glass or crystal, but filled with a measure of the waters flowing from this room.

Which meant Thadon would be powerful when she faced him, fueled by magicka drawn rightfully from the Font of Mania…unless this effect was stifled by the Order Crystals. Now that Lahallia was aware of the connection between the Font of Dementia and herself, she could feel the choking influence, as if someone held a woolen cloth against her nose and mouth.

A silver spire rose majestically up from the bowl the Sheogorath statue held, sloughing the Waters of Madness as it did so.

Lahallia did not wait to see the silver waters mingle with the dark, or the crystals already planted begin to grow. She reached down instinctively, touching the water. Cold and slimy, oily even, but familiar. She did not See, no Vision wracked mind and body, but she felt _something_, like a cold draft between her ears. Names, faces, events…all jumbled and clotted in a morass of darkness, but it did not impede her mental functions.

_Knowing_ without _Seeing_.

Even if it was strange water, it was still water, retaining most of the usual characteristics. Making sure she was well clear of standing in any puddles, or even letting the hem of her robes beneath her armor touch the rivulets, she smiled, and closed her eyes. This was her arena, and she intended to make full use of it, while she could.

The Order Priests never realized what, exactly, hit them. They collapsed to the ground as smoking husks, reeking of burnt skin and hair. The Order Crystals shattered under the combined influences of the suddenly-vanished coaxing of the Order Priests and the overly powerful shock spell.

Apparently, Lahallia smirked, releasing the spell and wiping her hand on her robes, the water was more than just a fair way to conduct a shock spell. Water elsewhere, Nirn in particular, never worked half so well as this.

She strode forward. The Order Crystal in the bowl, still worked to spread Order-silver waters. She slammed the crystal with the jeweled end of the staff as though striking a gong. The crystal shattered, turning into water itself before the dark wash of the source of Dementia's power swallowed it up, roiling thickly before settling out.

She dipped the head of the Staff into the basin. It sunk into the murky contents much further than it should have done, halfway of the body of the Staff, before she felt any resistance. When she withdrew it, the amethyst-colored globe seemed half-full of dark water.

Having what she came for, Lahallia hurried out, unable to waste time.

Had the battle up top commenced? Were the forces of Order already overwhelming the Mazken? Or the Aureals?

The room went dark as Lahallia left, as though settling down to sleep. The Order Priests, lifeless as they were, sunk into the ground, entombed in the earth of the chamber they had tried to desecrate. Only the sound of water broke the stillness, murmuring soft and sinister satisfaction. In the darkness, a single stream, thin and frail, of vivid green-blue water, intense as Mazken eyes trickled brilliantly through the darkness, snaking its way slowly across the floor.

The pale light cast by that feeble thread of Shivering Isles lifeblood reflected dully off a face nearly featureless above it. But the silhouette of the dark stone in the dark room was too frail to be congruous with the effigy Lahallia originally saw.

--SI--

The Mazken and the Aureals filled the Courtyard, rank upon rank ascending the stairs. The Autkendo, the Grakedrigs from the city watch and the Palace garrison, the Auren and her Aurmazls—also from the city watch and the Palace garrison—stood halfway between the frontlines and the rear ranks.

Orphael stood just before them, having flung Lahallia's orders that he should be present and participate in the battle into their faces.

Jansa _assumed_ this utter defiance meant Lahallia's blessings rested with Orphael—how else could one have pried him away from her, when she was doing who knew what dangerous things? Orphael refused steadfastly to explain _anything_, and finally lost his temper, telling her in no uncertain terms that if _Duchess_ Lahallia wished a secret kept, it was not the Autkendo's place to argue the point.

Nor his to divulge it. Never before had he appreciated the hierarchical conventions of the Mazken so much. Jansa's face at his finally using the equivalent of 'I am a male, and not an officer, I know my place' gave him a deep-seated sense of amusement. At that moment, Jansa might have served him up to _Relmyna_, if it were an option.

Lahallia would be back, she had to come back, and that was that. She would expect to see him there, ready for the battle—or participating in it—so it was his job to make sure it happened so.

Now, whether she would be back _in time_ was another matter, though Orphael did not voice this depressing thought. His heart fluttered uncomfortably in his chest. His stomach churned as he gripped his sword left-handed. His right arm _burned _again, skipping right past the tingle in his fingers. He swallowed, fear gnawing at him in a way he never felt it gnaw before.

It was not just fear for Lahallia.

It was fear for himself. For his comrades. Not the usual concern for them—returning from the Waters of Oblivion was a nuisance under the best circumstances—but real heartfelt _concern_. How could they return from the Waters if Order prevailed? Brellach and Pinnacle Rock obviously had withstood the Greymarch thus far, being so rooted in the Isles…but if Order prevailed, that could not last. With nowhere to return to, no way to come back from the Waters…what would happen to them?

What if this really was the, the very last Greymarch?

It was a question many were asking—not quite worded the same, but with the same sentiment—though some wondered why the Duchess never tried to rescue Sheogorath, most of those agreed she had done all she could to get them mobilized and set up defenses for the palace. Whatever her secret errands for Lord Sheogorath, she certainly got them done.

But what good were they? Especially now when the Isles' ending seemed so near?

The ground trembled once, twice, then the obelisks began to grow, their crystalline arms reaching up towards the sky, forming an arch halfway between base and tip. The two arms continued above the arch like giant lighting rods, the tool of some mad mage.

The wind, previously blowing cool and stale, died altogether. Soldiers shifted nervously, their many fidgetings sounding like someone walking across a gravel path.

In a trice light began to bounce from pillar-top to pillar-top, connecting the obelisks outside the city, from Vitharn to the gates, with a web of light. For a moment the white light trembled, as though waiting for some final cue.

Order dust began to fall from the sky like ash. Unseen by the Mazken, the outermost wall of the city turned gray, growing smooth. The Ordering crept forward, rendering all lines straight, all curves angular, all things smooth and gray and rigidly designed. Plants withered, replaced by cubes, or pyramidal blocks of gray crystal, which burned with an internal white light. The fountains decorating the city dried up, all waters ceased to flow.

All the brilliance of Bliss, all the squalor of Crucible resolved itself into unending, unyielding, interminable Order. The Nameless Facet—Mytheria—all over again. And soon, very soon, would come Jyggalag, in person, to reclaim his capitol.

The Flame of Agnon went out silently, without even smoking. The hearts of the defending army sank, many of them watching with mute wonder, or fear, or misery. Even the Aureals could not work themselves into their usual frenzy for battle, turning apprehension into manic energy.

But no sword fell from nerveless hand, no shield dropped from demoralized arm, no foot turned to flee in hopes of escape. There was nowhere to run, and frightened or not, leaderless or not—for where was the Duchess? It was not like her to just vanish when her soldiers needed her—they retained enough pride not to be taken alive. Not to lie down before an enemy, heads bent for him to administer the fatal stroke.

All the Mazken and Aureals drank deep from the cup of free will and its terrible prices for the first time since the last Greymarch. They could not run if Lord Sheogorath threw them at an enemy like a hawk at a rabbit, for it would disappoint him, and they lived and died for him, assured of return and fresh attempts at success.

They would not run now. Now, they stood for themselves. They could not save their lord, their leader, their land if they were dead. It was a conscious decision, dredged from the morass of stark, piercing emotions they only felt here, at the end of the Greymarch.

The progression of the Greymarch's Ordering stopped at the boundary wall between the palace and the districts of Bliss and Crucible. Madness was still too strong for the Ordering to continue. The waters beneath the palace, the Fonts of Madness, were not yet choked with Order.

That was expected. Such seeding took time. It would not be long before the seeding of Order Crystals in the muddy heart of this land was complete. Until then, Order could wait, patiently. The insignificant mortal leading this rabble would die before her Daedra cohorts. And then they would die, fighting futilely as always. And this time Order would prevail. It was the only conclusion. How could it be otherwise? Too many things in this shattered realm had changed. The outcome would change, too. And he would finally prevail.

As all these poor fools knew he must.

Jyggalag, standing outside the city, raised his arm, and brought it down before him, pointing his sword at the wall. Even if the seeding ran slow, he could cut through the Duchess and her rabble as quickly as not. He would have to regardless. Better sooner than later.

The Mazken and Aureals held their ground as the cloudy ceiling lowered, like a dome-shaped lid hiding what was about to happen. The Order dust lay in a thin blanket about their feet, causing the Daedra to sniffle and cough.

"Summon Hungers!" Autkendo Jansa barked, successfully keeping her voice cold and commanding.

"Aye," the Mazken answered back, more to bolster their own courage as they called their Hungers.

"What are you waiting for? Hungers at the ready!" Auren Zudeh snapped, shaken from her own inner chill of horror. Doing _something_ must be better than just standing around like a wart on a baliwog waiting for the final blow.

Fire of the will to survive flickered into life among the assembled Daedra, restoring courage, pushing back fear and hopelessness.

"Hungers ready!" The Aureals took their cue from the Mazken without any thought of disgust at having to copy anything from them. It no longer mattered.

The Hungers, regardless of side, hunkered on the ground, cowering, snuffling and whining their dislike of the atmosphere. All present knew the Hungers would forget fear and discomfort as soon as anything remotely edible entered the courtyard.

Doubly so if the possible edibles turned out _in_edible. Hungers reacted _so _badly to disappointment.

As though gathered at the back of the network and surging forward, a final beam of light leapt from the pillar so close to New Sheoth's outer wall. The light split into two beams, each striking one of the inert Crystalline Gate's pillars. The gate activated, as though taking a deep breath preparatory to breathing forces of Order like a dragon breathed fire.

Postures changed, bracing to unleash the Hungers upon command as the Crystalline Gate lit up from the inside.

Orphael closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. He could still feel, through the thread binding him to Lahallia's summons, her presence. If she were dead, the thread would be gone…all they had to do was stall… "We have to buy the Duchess more time." He said, his voice loud enough for those immediately about him to hear—including the Autkendo and the Auren.

"You can still feel her?" Jansa asked.

"I can." Orphael glowered at the Gate. Let them try to set one foot past him…Jansa and Zudeh relaying the need to buy Lahallia more time rang out like the clash of chimes in the Wellspring rooms of Pinnacle Rock and Brellach.


	64. Chapter 64

Chapter Sixty-Four: Fount of Madness, Part Two

--SI--

Lahallia retraced her steps back to the fork in the tunnels, and took the one leading towards the Fount of Mania. The Order Crystals in this tunnel were further along in their progression, sticking out like jagged teeth, though fortunately they also angled away from her. The halfway finished Staff of Sheogorath buzzed faintly with power, but not power for her. She knew it would never work; this whole mad scheme had already failed. The Staff did not want _her, _not really. Or maybe it would change its mind, once she imbued it with the other half of the needed essence.

Silly as it seemed to think of an inanimate object as having will and personality, it did not seem so strange within the Shivering Isles. But more important than taking notice of peculiarities of thought were fervent hopes that somehow the scheme of saving the Isles would pull together.

If only the Daedric army could hold together until she finished here task here…how much time had passed? She could sense nothing, now, except those things that were housed in these twisting tunnels.

The smell of Mania grew in the air as Lahallia approached the Font of Mania. The cheerful smell associated with that land contained too much stale Order, the combination of which—for her as Duchess of Dementia—gave her the strange feeling of slimy things crawling around on her skin, wriggling and twitching. She could not repress the shudder of disgust any more than she could stop the gooseflesh from rising on her arms.

She heard Thadon's voice, raving like the lunatic he was, almost from the moment she reached the place where the tunnel diverged between the two Fonts. It did not sound as though he was helping the Order priests—he kept giggling and ranting, though the words were lost on Lahallia. Thadon, who had caused her so much trouble, who managed to waste so much of her precious time…who cost her so much in the defense of the Isles he should have been working to protect…

His entire simple existence _irritated her._

'Simple existence' was right. She did not dislike the Aureals as much now as when she first met them, perhaps because they acted with more decorum and courtesy now she was the only leader they had to look to. She did not think Thadon deserved them.

Or they him.

They needed a strong leader, someone who could direct them so the Mazken-Aureal clashes, which neither army could be happy without, would be worth something. At the very least, so those clashes could be said to occur between foemen and leaders worthy of one another's steel.

No, Thadon had disgraced his role as Duke three times now: first with Syl, then by betraying Brellach—she would have excused him for simple cowardice in the face of danger, but betraying Brellach eclipsed his defection—now by betraying the core of the Isles.

It was time for something to be done.

And because she now took the matter personally, she intended to show her displeasure to his face, rather than attacking him from behind. He was Manic—there had to be something there to exploit.

And the Demented would always find it. This would not be as with Syl. This would be quick, brutal, and final. Finally over.

Lahallia did not, however, simply charge in with the air of one kicking a door down to demand a duel. This would be one fight, undoubtedly, but she did not want to blunder in. It was not clever. It was not in good taste. Or in her best interests, with regards to surviving the duel, in order to regroup with her Daedra in the courtyard.

The room containing the Fount of Mania resembled its Dementia counterpart very little, save in general layout. The statue of Sheogorath here was white, pure white. He knelt upon one knee, naked except for a swathe of cloth positioned artistically about his hips. He held his long, shallow basin near to the floor, but his head tilted up, and from his mouth spouted a fountain of the honey-golden water with its fizzling sparks, arcing upward cheerfully. His eyes were golden, and he wore many articles of golden jewelry, bold against the white stone.

The long drop from fountain to basin caused the golden water to patter and splatter energetically. That water which flowed out of the basin, lapping over the edges, bounced and sparkled as it hit the floor. Some of it did, at least, but the Order Crystal in the basin lay beneath the stream of water falling through the air from the fountain of Sheogorath's mouth interfered with the fountain's function. The water falling over it seemed to rub off the silver of the crystal, carrying it down to the ground in a mundane stream of molten, shine-less silver.

Thadon, dressed like an Order Priest, though still wearing his ring of office and comical headdress stood off to one side of the three real Order Priests, kneeling around the statue—though they conspicuously avoided touching it. Lahallia realized the Font of Dementia sought to spread itself everywhere, leaving only a little land untroubled by its darkness. Mania was different, the opposite, sticking to several very winding little rivulets.

The powerful magicka of this place began to press strangely against her. Almost _lopsided_, as the Font of Dementia flowed normally, while the Fount of Mania stifled, suffocating by the presence of Order.

The monotone drone of the Order Priests began boring its way into Lahallia's head, rattling in her sinuses.

_Boring_ was the best word for it, Lahallia thought, getting to her feet. She gathered an ice spell to her hand and as she stepped into view, striking one of the unsuspecting Order Priests squarely in the head with it. He fell limply to one side, alerting his companion to the fact not all was well.

Before his companions could turn, Lahallia's second spell winged him. The one Priest remaining glanced back, but bowed his head, as though eager to finish what he had started before she could kill him.

Thadon hissed, like an angry cat, his hands dancing through the air. The swirl of magicka in the air spoke loudly that the Bosmer was not simply trying to ward her off with a show of painful exuberance, but meant to fight her.

Lahallia gave him one look of deep disdain, and sent a matching shock spell at him, effortlessness exuding from her every motion. Hers shattered his, forcing Thadon to jump out of the way. Lahallia's spell dissipated before hitting the wall.

She must not damage the tree whose roots stuck out so conspicuously down here, or it might not let her out. And Thadon's first spell was a pathetic attempt, really. "Should I have knocked?" she asked, before aiming another shock spell at the Order Priest, forcing him to abandon his work, or die.

The Priest chose to live, dodging behind the statue.

Thadon did not notice to Order Priest's taking of cover, but gripped his short knife, the only weapon he had. His magical signature hung in the air, however, hinting he was no mean opponent. Closer, and in the full light of the room, Lahallia could see what the past days—she had finally lost count—had done to him. The change would have frightened anyone with more to lose than Lahallia.

Thadon looked wasted, his skin taking on grayish tinges.

_The Apocrypha will suck the life out of you_. Orphael's assertion echoed in her ears. Had it always been so? Had Hermaeus Mora really employed such a tactic to add to his library? Determined to outdo Order, had he begun adding mortal lives, finite, unique things, to the collection?

Well, it certainly looked as though Order was leeching Thadon. His eyes were sunken in their sockets, with red rims and dark circles beneath. He looked quite demented, both as a state of being and an affiliation, yet the energy was completely Manic. His blazing look of insanity hinted at a strength not to be counted by the size of him, or the normal strength in his arms.

"Why won't you just _die_?" Thadon's voice came out high, a scream like cold wind. His magical signature, a murky cross between the strange acrid sting of greenmote mixed with brandy and chocolate roiled through the room.

No wonder he did not cast much—who could stomach the stench?

Lahallia found herself bounding about the room with all the speed she could manage, trying to keep ahead of the Bosmer. Whatever his mental condition was, however weak that first spell was, he retained the speedy, darting reflexes of his kind, and added to this the strength of a deranged Manic, she found herself wishing she had simply attacked before revealing herself.

Perhaps taking things personally _was_ a bad idea on the whole, instead of just as a general thing.

Thadon punctuated each ice spell with a shout, a curse, a slur—many of which made no sense. Lahallia could not even be glad when one of the frost spells, misaimed, slammed into the Order Priest. The Priest fell to the ground, dead as his comrade, without Thadon noticing. The walls of the cavern were spattered with snow when Thadon paused, having forced Lahallia to take cover behind the statue of Sheogorath.

The gold of the water was nearly all replaced by silver. Lahallia, alarmed by the progression of Order's poison, looked to the ground. No roots, none at all. But they were all over the ceiling and walls…she bit her lip, her mind sifting her options with a speed born of desperation and determination.

"Had enough?" Thadon jeered. "Must be hard for a High Elf to scamper about like a squirrel..." he tittered madly, "don't worry," his voice took on a threatening sweetness, "it'll all be over…but not soon…no, not soon at all…"

Lahallia did not hear his words as they died into dire, threatening mutters. She slipped up onto the statue's plinth, balancing as best she could on that precarious perch. She erected her shields as a precaution and crouched, one hand resting on the ground. Her crouched huddle made her look as though she cringed at Sheogorath's knee, as though desperate for protection.

Thadon shifted this way and that, a final spell in his hands, paralysis. He might not have Syl's delicate touch for this sort of brutality—he remembered a time where he hated fighting—but now…well, there was always time to learn.

He hated that Altmer's proud face. He'd fix that. He might not be much of a painter, but perhaps a knife would work better than a paintbrush to make someone ugly. The Demented were not the only ones who could find ways to make someone suffer. He darted around the statue to find Lahallia crumpled on the plinth, one hand resting limp against the ground.

"Have you had enough?" he jeered, stepping closer, seeing her shape heaving to breathe, but no sign of her face. "You've failed…that's just a stick of wood…it can't help you…" her hand clenched around it, making Thadon's laugh. He paused, considering. What if _he_ took it? Then _he_ could be the master…bring back Syl, make the Altmer suffer….have Syl make the Altmer suffer, then hand the wretched blonde over to Relmyna…Relmyna hated the Altmer as much as anyone…

He stepped within arm's reach to take the Staff from the exhausted Altmer.

Only she was not exhausted.

Lahallia looked up, her eyes full of a red tint, a strange golden lights flickering in them, as though they reflected a bonfire. She smiled, smoke exuding from her mouth, like a dragon in human from. She spat viciously in his face. Except the saliva vanished halfway across the gap between them. Fire exploded out from Lahallia in a circle, stopping feet from the wall and ceiling, but incinerating everything within except herself.

The statue of Sheogorath scorched, turning black, black as its Dementia counterpart.

Lahallia let the spell rage and burn, draining her until she finally did fall forward, a combination of the stinging sensation of Elsweyran chili pepper oil in her eyes, mouth and nose, and the drain of such a spell with such precise parameters. She was not surprised to find her robes reduced to rags, only those portions covered by her Mazken armor protected, for all the good that did her.

But her skin remained pale, and unmarred by the spell. Practice did lead to proficiency…as she always knew it would…but who could practice such a thing safely? It helped that necessity was a great teacher.

Nothing remained of Thadon, or the Order Priests' corpses, except for cinders, the wreck of Thadon's gold headdress, and his gold and ruby ring of office. Of all remnants, only the ring remained uninjured, too much a thing of the Isles for any spell cast by mortal hands to destroy.

Lahallia scooped it up, took off her gauntlet and slipped the ring onto her finger for convenience, not really caring if it made any difference to the Isles. She certainly could not leave it here. With no one in the Seat of Mania, and without Sheogorath on his throne, there was no one else. Surely the Isles could understand _that._ After all…it would not be long for her, before she met her end.

Who really survived the Greymarch? Especially when she chose to stand and fight? Certainly no mortal Elf.

She cut this depressing thought off, letting the residual feeling of fire in her skin bolster the burning desire to fight, to win, to survive. She would not yield to Jyggalag. She would not let him level the Isles again. She would win, and _make him put it right_. However she had to do it, she would.

She tugged her gauntlet back on, grimacing.

Stepping over to the low basin, finally stopped up by Order Crystals, she drew Malice and slammed it repeatedly into the crystal. It did not work now, just as it had never worked before. The magicka of Mania seemed almost spent, trapped and strangled to its dying breaths. This in and of itself allowed Lahallia to scrape together her returning power, enough magicka to run a shock spell through it. A low-level one, but strong enough to harm the crystal, so she could pound it apart like ice over a river.

The crystal broke up. After a moment, the water began to burble timidly from its spout in Sheogorath's mouth, but after a few more moments—Lahallia grudged every one of those moments—enough of the honey-colored water filled the basin to cover the bottom. Lahallia pushed the Staff of Sheogorath in, grateful then it seemingly sunk into the bowl itself, again, too far for such a shallow basin.

Again her mind hazed, bright white, jumbled impressions stampeding like a herd of confused cats, but uncomfortably unclear.

Withdrawing the staff she found the liquid inside dark, but present. It lent weight to the Staff, and yet she felt no power coming from it, as though it did not like her. A cat avoiding a strange touch.

She had no choice, just as she had no concept of time. She turned and hurried down the hall, her powers trickling back to her. Doubtless Jyggalag knew his plan to seed Order in the Fountain head had failed. He would have to come up with something else. How good was he at coming up with anything original? He had used the same 'sneak up from behind' tactic, what, three times now? Once in the Daedra wars, and twice here—once to get into the courtyard, and again to get his influences down here while no one was looking.

Perhaps Thadon even had a hand in this. _He_ certainly had the capacity for original thought as well as for being unspeakably annoying. Lahallia reached the place where the tunnels branched, glad to see the Order Crystals receding, with the freeing of the Fonts, and the removal of the Order Priests. Water even began to trickle determinedly from the Fount of Mania's chamber, in a thin stream within the niche in the wall, carved for it to move within.

The blackened soot from her fire spell faded from the statue of Sheogorath as though nothing ever marred the white stone, leaving it immaculate in the earthen cave.

With a grim expression, Lahallia continued on, winding her way to the door in the tree, which opened obligingly for her before shutting and sealing itself behind her. The air outside the tree seemed cool and breathable by comparison to the stuffy, magicka-rich air of the Fountainhead.

But as she took two deep breaths she realized the air was too cool, too calm…stale-smelling.

She hurried out of the throne room with all speed, nearly killing herself as she tripped up the stairs. Pushing her way out of the palace, she ground to a halt at the stairs overlooking the courtyard. The Mazken and Aureals stood still as stones, Order dust falling from the low ceiling of clouds. No wind stirred the tense air, no sound, not even from the Hungers flattened as close to the ground as they could get, without rubbing their bellies in the accumulating Order dust.

--SI--

As Lahallia took her last step out of the Fountainhead into the New Sheoth Palace, the Font of Mania vanished in a blinding white light, which filled the room as effectively as the darkness filled the room around the Font of Dementia.

From within the whiteness came a sound like sweet birdsong and laughing children, preceding a stream of gold, like molten metal falling from some point high up in the whiteness. The new liquid, completely unlike the bubbly Waters of Mania slithered enthusiastically along where the basin should have been, before draining off onto the floor, snaking its way to the niche edging the room.

The golden ribbon of strangely metallic water threaded its way through the trough to the point beneath which the three hallways converged, flowing into a small basin hidden under the walkway. A basin safe from all prying eyes. Into this, too, the waters from the Fount of Dementia poured, though more readily, for it had not choked as the Font of Mania had. Mingled with the Waters of Dementia, the slither of Mazken-eye green waters.

As though the lifeblood of the Isles, exhausted by war and Ordering were draining away, the palpable sense of magicka originally Lahallia felt while within the Fountainhead faded to a low hum, as though it had gone out of the world.

As though the heart of the Isles ceased to beat.


	65. Chapter 65

Chapter Sixty-Five: The Fall of House Dementia

--SI--

Lahallia stood at the top of the terraces overlooking the courtyard of the New Sheoth Palace, Malice's hilt cutting into one hand, the twisted wood of the barely magical Staff of Sheogorath in the other. She could only assume Dyus or Haskill had somehow intervened, somehow thwarted Sheogorath's original intent. But that was not important. She could not recall having seen Haskill since disappearing into the Fountainhead.

Had she looked up, at the spires of the New Sheoth Palace, she would have seen a dark figure standing on the lip of one of the sloping roofs, watching the battle below with a bird's-eye view, out of the way and out of danger.

She could not bring herself to throw the Staff aside like the piece of near-useless wood it was. That would, if nothing else, demoralize the Daedra so bravely standing before the Crystalline Gate. Thankfully, she had at least arrived before Jyggalag and his Knights could sweep through the courtyard, overrunning the Daedra there.

She was in time to die with them, at the very least.

The Crystalline Gate was open, revealing the Dementia swamps, ranks of Knights of Order trying to maintain their ranks and files. Before all these loomed Jyggalag, a crystalline behemoth sunk almost ankle deep in the Dementia muck, with a massive claymore in one hand, which he plainly intended to use as a single-handed weapon, and a massive spear in the other.

Lahallia glanced at the Staff in her hand. It _felt_ magical, but no more so than any mage's staff would feel, and without any hint of how to use it. Usually one could tell what a staff's capabilities were by examining it with magicka, which she had done. But no, nothing. The power within the wood and jewels hunkered down, stubborn and sullen.

Her last hope flickered, and died. It had not worked. The plan had gone awry, and there was nothing she could do now, but fight and die alongside her Mazken and the Aureals. This was it, this was really the end. The spark of power in the Staff suddenly snuffed out.

All the Isles-bound Daedra felt it, though they could not identify what it was. Something in the realm was...different. Changed. Broken. None could name it, and in the face of Jyggalag, no one could spare thought for a new problem in the growing list. A dark shadow fell upon their hearts, Mazken and Aureal alike, even as Lahallia felt the spark in the Staff die. Even the rings on her fingers became deadly cold before they were simply bands of metal, set with glass marbles full of water.

Robbed of all power not originally her own, with a mortal army before her, defending a broken realm in the face of the immortal Knights of Jyggalag, Lahallia wanted to scream her disappointment and fear. She did not, refusing to give Jyggalag the satisfaction of knowing she knew they were all doomed. That this Greymarch would be the last...and there was no truly stopping it.

Well, if she had to die, she was not going to cringe, cower, or cry. She would go out in the manner befitting a lady warlord of the far-distant times. If warlord was the best title she could aspire too—Duchess did not seem appropriate to her current position any longer—she would do her best to wear the title well, while she could.

"Stand your ground!" She barked, her voice stronger than she felt. Several heads turned but still more Daedra seemed to take heart as Jyggalag climbed laboriously through the Gate, his Order Knights beginning their slow march forward, fanning out before the Gate neat, orderly, and predictable.

No one heard Orphael's sigh of relief, especially when he saw the Staff in Lahallia's left hand, Malice in the right, raised above her head. She proudly wore the Mazken armor gifted to her upon taking possession of House Dementia, mercifully having discarded the monk-like garment she usually wore under it. He did not know the reason, nor did he think to question this recent change from the established norm. His arm had finally stopped burning, but now hung limp, dead at his side. It was better than pain, but he wished, somehow, to have gotten it working properly again.

He refocused on watching the Knights and restraining the Hunger on its lead. She was here—she was safe, for the moment. And she had the Staff of Sheogorath. Everything was falling out the way it should, and soon…soon the Isles would be right again. But his stomach fluttered uncomfortably, and he was not sure why.

"On my command…release the Hungers!" The Autkendo and the Auren echoed Lahallia's commands as the Order Knights continued spilling through.

"Now!" Lahallia dropped the hand holding Malice, as though starting a horserace.

Hungers, whining and groveling alternately with hissing and straining at their leads, sprang forward, bounding down the steps in a mad, racing scramble towards the moving Knights. They slipped and tumbled on the stone steps, but this did not daunt them. They attacked in small packs of three or four, dragging Knights to the ground, bested by weight of numbers, forcing those Knights still pouring through the Gate to move, reshuffle, disorder themselves.

Orphael smiled grimly, dropping his Hunger's lead and kicking it aside, even as so many others imitated the gesture. He drew his sword clumsily, bracing himself with a grim smile. The release of the Hungers continued to frustrate the enemy, even if it did not dismay him. Anyone present could feel Jyggalag forcing his men to move, whether it was to march, or try to crawl to their proper places in the lines, even as Hungers gnawed at them, biting chunks out of armor with teeth-breaking, ravenous appetites.

Wait until this fresh batch of Hungers realized was nothing soft and juicy beneath the crystal shells.

Jyggalag swept with his spear, sending several Hungers slamming into the walls forming the lowest terrace. They hit the stone with sickening crunches, before their own brethren turned on them, demolishing the corpses in seconds before redoubling the assault on the Knights.

As the Hungers slammed into the ranks for a second time, all the Knights drew their swords, waiting tensely for the command to join the fray.

Jyggalag kicked away the newest batch of Hungers worrying him, but as in the Vision of his last battle he did not go forth and lead his men to victory. He held back, watching, calculating. And his men held back as well, calm and patient, as opposed to the eager-to-do-something Daedra of the Isles.

Lahallia strode down the stairs between the divisions of Mazken and Aureals until she stood just behind Orphael, with the Auren on one side and the Autkendo on the other. Both gazed at the Staff, and Lahallia's posture. She radiated such a degree of calm leadership that hope rose in them, further building confidence, however dangerous the situation remained.

If they noticed the lack of Isles-brand magicka about the Staff, they attributed it either rot Lahallia' will to mask its presence, to use it as a surprise to throw Jyggalag out of reckoning, or because Order pressed so thickly. Lahallia knew better. If the Staff was functional, it would be like a flare amongst them, impossible to ignore.

"Your Grace?" Jansa eyed Lahallia's burnt clothing, the smell of fire hanging about the Altmer like cheap perfume.

"I'm all right, things just got…tense," Lahallia chose her euphemism carelessly. What did it matter, now? Euphemisms and truths would not bolster this army. An attitude of courage and surety would. Even if no Mazken or Aureal lived to remember her name. The thought of Orphael forgetting her pierced her heart.

But this was the last Greymarch. There would be no Mazken, no Aureal, no Orphael to remember her…and no one to remember them.

Jansa nodded, though in the fashion of one who does not believe the answer given, but is too well mannered to argue.

"Can we close the Gate?" Zudeh asked, keeping her voice low. Clearly the Duchess had her priorities right. Jansa kept getting hung up on every trivial detail—it was the hardest thing about working with the micromanaging Mazken

"It doesn't matter, it just leads outside the city. He's got a finite number of men, just like we do." Lahallia did not say why this was, but Orphael knew.

This knowledge made him wonder about his so-stubborn, so-useless sword arm. Was it possible it reacted this way, went painful, then completely numb in Jyggalag's presence, that it retained the characteristics of a burn…because at one point he had raised a hand against his master? The former Order Knight against Jyggalag…and a Mazken against Sheogorath—for they _were_ one and the same. It filled in a lot of blanks, and explained quite a bit. It was possible, but now was not the time to worry about that.

The gray Ordering, the final showing of the Greymarch, inched over the wall before falling down it into the courtyard like molten silver. The Ordering stopped, however, at the heels of the assembling army, apparently unable to continue its slither forward. Jyggalag had the city in his grasp. Wipe out this last pathetic attempt at defense and it would be his, his forever. After so long waiting…things would be different. Too many things had changed. Nothing could fall out the same way again.

"Then we'll just kill as many as we can," Jansa growled, before shouting to her Mazken at large.

Lahallia ignored the Autkendo and Auren, both shouting orders to make the enemy pay ten times over for every single defender who fell. The havoc wreaked by the Hungers amongst the injured and the unfortunate ranks closest to them were almost spent. Yes, the Knights fought back, but at the same time had to obey the compulsion of their master to remained steady. But they could kill a Hunger within reach easily enough, if they could make a clean swipe at it.

Lahallia grit her teeth, knowing her army, like she herself, was now mortal. There was nothing for it. "Rush them." The two words fell from Lahallia's lips like stones as she shifted her footing in the ankle-deep Order dust. Already the Mazken wheezed a little as they breathed, but fought it as hard as they intended to fight the Knights.

They could not make a proper ambush, they could only rush forward, and why bother waiting until the Knights of Order finished streaming into the courtyard?

Jansa gave a bark of laughter, approving the decision. "Mazken! On my command, forward!"

"Aureals! On my word, cut them down!" Zudeh shouted, her voice high with enthusiasm and determination.

"Now!" Lahallia darted past Orphael before Zudeh and Jansa finished giving the shout to continue.

If they were all going to die, Lahallia determined she would not be like Jyggalag, letting her followers fight and die while she stood back watching. She would lead the Daedra, and die before they were defeated.

Lahallia found she could still use the hand holding the malfunctioning Staff to cast, so long as she could free up a few fingers from holding it. She never thought for a moment about casting away the Staff—the Daedra needed to see it, needed to see her with it.

She soon had the first rank of Knights'—those who managed to advance through the squiggling, wriggling, much depleted packs of Hungers—full attention. Once half the Daedra came rushing down the steps—there was no room for more, for the idea was to make the Knights come _up_ the stairs, thus preserving the high ground as much as possible—but Lahallia's ferocity was none the less for it.

Her one goal was to reach Jyggalag—reach him and see if sticking Malice, with all its roots in madness would not cause him some dismay.

Jyggalag seemed to read this thought as she fought her way forward.

Orphael found himself forced towards the back of the first charge, away from Lahallia and Jyggalag, the clumsiness of using off-hand making him more of a danger to his comrades than his enemies.

The massive Daedric Prince began to move, raising his claymore as if in sign to charge. Those Knights still marching antlike in through the Gate did not form up, but stepped forward in long ranks, the silver Ordering inching forward at their heels.

"Fire!" Zudeh's voice rang over the din of sword on swords, weapons on armor and the sounds of injured or dying Daedra.

Overhead spells from the School of Destruction arched, falling down near the Gate, into those ranks who could not yet move forward. Jyggalag's own attempts to maintain the Order he prized so highly, which he called his dominion, had succeeded in nothing so much as inconveniencing him, and bunching up his soldiers.

Orderly attacks worked in the Nameless Facet, but not in the Shivering Isles.

Lahallia found the chaotic attacks she inspired more problematic than Jyggalag found his orderly efforts. She could not get close to him, despite her attempts—the barrage from her own side forced her to stay well back. Her magicka held out, however, allowing her to carve a path with mid-level destructive spells—she dared not try anything particularly powerful, between having used one such spell already and the likelihood of harming her own people.

With all the noise and action, she could never maintain the concentration to do it.

Orphael had put away his sword, using magicka to blast anything before him. That, at least, did not require the use of his dominant hand. Unlike Lahallia, who seemed on fire, empowered by her determination to live, to _win_, unstoppable, he felt _his_ magicka failing—failing without any sign of coming back.

Why didn't Lahallia use the Staff to smite down her enemies? It was hers! She had reforged it! It could not….could not…

He would not believe it. He grit his teeth and forced down the lump in his throat, redoubling his assault.

Lahallia jumped back, narrowly avoiding a shock spell from Jyggalag. Without thinking, she ran to the nearest edge of the terrace upon which she stood and jumped from it. Jyggalag's men cleared a way for her, though she still had to fight for every inch, her guard of Daedra thinning as she fought forward.

The Knights fell back, allowing Jyggalag and Lahallia their fight, keeping the Mazken and Aureals at bay, unable to interfere.

Lahallia gazed up at Jyggalag, the Staff feeling more than ever as useful as a mortal-sized toothpick to a giant. With a scream, blood curdling and the epitome of Demented, Lahallia threw herself forward.

Her spell bounced pitifully off Jyggalag's armor.

She danced left and right as he grabbed for her…and tripped over a Knight. Her dancing and dodging had maneuvered her towards the fallen bodies of Hunger-savaged Knights, one of whom was just alive enough to grab her ankle and _grip_ it.

Lahallia thought the bones would break as she felt the ground, managing to keep both Staff and Malice in hand. She did not complete her shock spell before Jyggalag grabbed her up, like a child snatching a doll from the floor. His iron grip stole her breath. Clumsily she jabbed Malice into Jyggalag's fingers, one handed, intending to run a proper shock spell, the strongest she had, into Jyggalag and see how he held up against it—or if she could make him drop her out of surprise at such an intrepid act.

She ever considered the repercussions of falling from his fist to the unforgiving ground beneath.

The sword sunk deep into Jyggalag's finger, Lahallia readjusted her grip, letting her weight as she tried to pull herself loose drive it deeper. The sword stopped its downward progress, then exploded, sending shards of madness ore everywhere, scraping her face, missing her eyes only because she flung her Staff-arm across them.

"_Impudence_." The word rattled in Lahallia's head as well as her ears.

The next thing she knew Jyggalag had flung her through the air. She flew like a rock about to skip along the surface of a lake, and slammed into the canted roof of the New Sheoth Palace. She had no time to fall, for Order Crystals erupted out of the roof like teeth, covering her, contracting until an Altmer shaped faceted growth adorned the roof.

Orphael shouted wordlessly, horrified, angry, despairing. It struck him as true, as it struck the other Daedra for the first time.

Lahallia had not even screamed before she hit the wall—and with that much force…no mortal could have survived it. And now she was dead…the realm was dead. Orphael knew the realm had died before Lahallia came to the battlefield, and she had thrown herself in all her frail mortality as a battle she could not win, had no chance of winning.

And now, there was nothing left to do but fight—for the _had _to fight, if only for the cold comfort of dying to avenge their fallen leader—and follow her into death.

What happened, he wondered as a screaming blank of fear gripped him, when a Daedra made mortal died?

"_This realm is_ mine," Jyggalag's voice thundered in ears and minds. "_The queen is dead. The king is checkmated. The pawns…obsolete. Only Knights remain._"

--SI--

Within the New Sheoth Palace throne room, the waters of the Font of Madness exploded from their crystal-choked prison. The waters mingled molten gold and luminous green, gushing from the fountain onto the ground, finding the stone waterways in the throne room. The liquid moved fiercely, surging through its courses and channels until the troughs overflowed. The overflow did not spread across the ground like real water, it streamed up the stairs, up the wall, seeping through chinks and cracks until it found release, drawn like a ribbon across the throne room from fountain to high on the wall, flowing in opposition to gravity.


	66. Chapter 66

Chapter Sixty-Six: Sheogorath

--SI--

The demoralized Aureals and Mazken were taking heavy casualties, falling back like the tide, leaving dead comrades behind on the steps as Order began marching forward. Orphael stood halfway down the stairs leading to the terrace upon which the Palace was built. Mazken though he was, he felt dead inside, in a way he never imagined. He had _checked_ to see if she was alive, searched desperately for her on the other end of the binding that allowed her to summon him…but it was not there. There was no Duchess, no beloved Altmer holding the other end of the binding. There was no sign of her.

The link was severed, the frayed end waving without a second anchor point.

He swung his sword, and strode boldly down the stairs, his face set grim, determined. The shouts, commands of Autkendo Jansa to come back, and not to be a fool, rang in his ears like so much raucous noise. Was this what mortals called 'grief'? This burning searing ache, which blotted out all reason, stripped away trappings of duty?

Jyggalag stopped where he was, and stopped his march of Knights as well as the lone Mazken came trotting down the stairs like a man already dead, one arm dangling lifeless at his side.

This one again. Incorrigible and very foolish.

Orphael stopped on the stairs, his brilliant eyes over-bright, burning in his face, which bore the ravages of an emotion a Mazken was never meant to feel, and one he could not take time to vent properly, even if he knew how. She would prefer it this way—one last act of courage before the end. It was her end, one brave charge, one last blow and then…

…he hoped it had killed her instantly, that she had not been forced to suffocate, or waited, trapped and in pain, for death to come. All he knew was he could not follow, and find her again in death. Who knew where Daedra went when they could not return to their native land? Probably turn into foam on the Waters of Oblivion, or become dust in the new land of Order.

They were never meant to die. They were never meant to grieve.

He half closed his eyes, forcing the last power he had into his sword. If he only had one blow, he would make it _hurt_.

"_You have tried this before. It is illogical to try it again. The result will not differ_," Jyggalag's monotone rattled Orphael's teeth, buzzing between his ears.

"That," Orphael answered softly, "is the definition of insanity." To repeat an action over and over again, in the same way, hoping for a different outcome. He prepared to spring forward, to jab the blade into the Daedric Prince's chest…

Jyggalag stopped, his massive helmeted head turning to the sky.

Orphael would have charged then and there, if he had not felt it too. Something changed, something in the atmosphere. The explosion was not physical, but something which seemed to shake the very foundations of the Isles. The very unidentifiable nature of what had caused such a thing left the Aureals and Mazken frightened, as mortals confronted with the unknown felt fear.

Jyggalag felt it too, and his face darkened.

Abruptly, the Mazken and Aureals found themselves crowded together on the doorstep of the Palace, their injured comrades suddenly gone. At the bottom of the stairs the Order Knights stood, such as remained, in a greater flat space than the courtyard should have had.

The clouds overhead began to turn black, shot with green or vivid red, spinning and twisting spiral-like. The massive funnel moved, until it spun directly over the Palace. The clouds rent apart, allowing the pale light of an Oblivionic sky—stripped of all the influences a Prince exerted to color it to his or her taste—to shine down.

The Order dust stopped falling, and a breeze, cool but sinister began to blow, chilling sweaty skin, ticking up spines, and tousling hair. Something in all the Isles-bound Daedra suddenly kindled, a fierce desire to take up the fight again, to bring the Army of Jyggalag to its crystalline knees.

The Order pillars still remained, bright, connected by their web of light, but the Crystal Gate suddenly severed, collapsing in on itself in a silvery cascade of falling glass.

A thud made the surviving Mazken and Aureals jump. Fear gripped them at the strange sound until another, and another made them look up. Very few noticed the dead Isles-bound Daedra vanish from the field of combat, only to reappear at the rear of the army, also gazing upwards as though they had only tripped and fallen.

The clouds edging the New Sheoth courtyard were divulging flaming dogs, which hit the roof of the palace, and the battlements, sending the burning corpses either into the ranks of the Order Knights, or into the deserted city. The dogs seemed to do no damage, but Jyggalag looked about as though confused before his head settled on looking in the direction of the crystalline splotch on the Place roof.

The air grew humid and hot, even more sinister than the cool breeze.

In the blink of an eye a row of creatures, black with horizontal white bands and porcelain masks over their faces appeared, each poised, as though holding an invisible leash attached to the hunched beast hunkering at their feet. These smaller shapes stood half man-height—taller if they were to unhunch.

At first Orphael thought they were strange gargoyles and half-man half-dogs, but no…

Peering more closely he realized that, while the handlers in black had legs like a canine walking upright, they were mostly human shaped. One turned to look at him, as though sensing his eyes on its neck. But rather than turn its body, it rotated its head on its neck like a sock twisted to wring water from it.

Orphael was not the only one who jumped back, and even if he was, no one would not have called it cowardice. The creature's mask gave way to hollow, empty eyes, not even recognizable as eyes beneath the mask. The mask itself bore human shape, but the smile was wide and thin, black-lipped and painted almost ear to ear, the nose blackened as it to accentuate the point, the eyebrows heavy and dark. The creature turned back, like a snake moving to slither.

In the moments while the creature—could he even _call_ it a mime?—regarded him, he saw past it. The hunched shape's wild hair blew straggly and red in the breeze above a garish tunic and trousers of lurid purple and eye-burning green. A memory of similarly colored lurid robes, stirred in his memory.

As one, the handlers knelt, hands on invisible collars about their charges' necks. Hunters ready to release the hounds.

The red-haired beasts, also man shaped but barely so, suddenly animated, gobbling softly in their throats, breathing with raspy breaths, shifting their heads sinuously back and forth. As they rose to a half-standing position it became apparently they had not man-shape hands, but lethal claws and feet far too large for their bodies.

Orphael skirted to one side, bolder than most as the air continued to grow stifling.

They were _clowns_, but nothing like he ever saw—certainly not the cannibalistic clown Lord Sheogorath liked to keep for his own inscrutable reasons. Their long claws looked almost metallic. Bulbous noses and grotesquely arranged features, parodies of painted faces, remained facing the Order Knights. The mimes, too, stood ready to release the collars and let the clowns do their work.

The clown nearest Orphael stopped its nerve-fraying gobble to hiss at the Knights impatiently, revealing fanged steel teeth, sharp, lethal and strong. Orphael stepped back again. What kind of mind would _ever_ conceive something so horrible…? Even in the Isles, these things were…perverse.

He turned around sharply.

Behind them, while everyone watched the clowns and mimes in mute horror, the crystal protecting Lahallia's corpse glowed from within, a miasma of color as though filled with liquid and light.

Suddenly white cracks appeared in it. Orphael took four steps towards it and stopped, his heart pounding. The severed connection to Lahallia was still broken…but another connection, much older, much stronger had suddenly seemed to reattach itself.

…it couldn't…

The rain of flaming dogs stopped. A deadly silence joined the stifling air, but his heart lurched in spite of it. The storm, the atmosphere, not one of it held any terror for him. On the contrary, it was beyond his wildest hopes. The grief, which before possessed him so entirely dulled, dimmed, and became a thing of passing curiosity.

The crystal exploded violently, sending shards everywhere, many of which stuck, embedded in the ground, or shooting over the heads of the assembled Daedra. Water, the color of metallic Mazken eyes and molten gold fell out of the crystal's ruin before crawling towards the edges of the terrace in thin fingers, acting just as real water should.

Water was not all that fell out of the crystal prison.

Lahallia landed easily, rising to stand erect, and undamaged. Somehow she was not even wet, but certainly _changed_. All the Daedra of the Isles turned as one, aware, somehow, that their master was returned to them, the connection of a Daedric Prince to his—or her—servants suddenly operating as though it had never disconnected.

In her hand, Lahallia carried the Staff of Sheogorath, the purple stone illuminated brilliantly. Her armor and scorched rags were gone, having changed to a suit of armor similar but different to those which all the Isles' Daedra wore, in gold and purple. She walked forward, her hair hanging loose and her expression arch—a perfectly Altmer expression, until Orphael realized why it was not.

Her eyes were changed. No longer the soft brown and piercing blue of an Elf. The formerly brown eye shone Aureal gold, the blue Mazken-green. Lahallia prowled sinuously past her Auren and Autkendo on high-heeled boots, making straight for him. She blinked and the spell broke.

The smile was her own, the impish light which sometimes glittered in her eyes was still there. "Does this still hurt?" she asked, her voice still a clear Altmer's as she touched his wrist, running her hand up to his elbow.

He was not sure what she really was, anymore…but he did not care. The undertone of power in her voice did not matter so much as the voice being the one he remembered. Clearly, something had happened between the time she hit the roof and now…but he could not say what it was.

Only that now…the Isles had a Sheogorath again. That all those moments where the Isles had died…seemed to have been only part of the process of installing a new Prince. The old had to die, in order for the new to take.

"Does it?" Lahallia continued fingering his lifeless arm, as though she did not stand on a battlefield, as though there was no such thing as time.

"No," who cared about his arm?

Lahallia did, and sighed, "You're a horrible liar. But it will keep." She patted his arm, her mind clear, and unafraid. Jyggalgag could hurt her, but not kill her. This realm was no longer his. It was hers. All hers, along with everything in it.

She _felt_ different, but essentially the same as she ever had—though with far fewer aches than when she hit the wall. For a few moments she honestly though she was going to die. And then, in seeped the water. For several moments she thought Jyggalag meant to drown her, until the water rose high enough to seep into her mouth, ears and nostrils.

That was when she realized what it was, and that the Staff of Sheogorath seemed awake in her hand, friendly as a kitten and willing, eager, to get started. The water, a mix from the Fonts of Madness in the Fountainhead, drew the Order straight from the crystals, even as it restored her. And with this restoration, the madness of the Isles seeped into her, changing her, until the small shell of lifeless crystal was gone.

Like a butterfly in its chrysalis.

And now, she was _Sheogorath_. And this realm was hers _by right. _It knew her. It accepted her.

"My lord?" Auren Zudeh asked, almost timidly. Every Aureal and Mazken here knew this was their lord. Only Orphael remembered the graying, aged, human man with the pointed beard—because Sheogorath wanted him to remember her as she really was. What she once was, without intimidation of what she was now. "What would you have us…?"

"Just stay there, Zudeh. The plan has changed. I like change…it keeps things interesting. And unpredictable." She knew Jyggalag could hear her, and would present the taunt—so much as he could resent anything.

Of course, as she walked towards the row of mimes and clowns, she knew what she was: a Daedric-mortal cross, an Oblivion-touched mortal. There were others. She stopped behind one of the mimes, looking past them down at Jyggalag. "Kill the Knights. Leave the Prince."

The mimes knelt soundlessly, imitating the motions of taking off a leash.

Suddenly free the clowns sprang forward, landing on all fours until they slammed into the ranks of the Knights of Order, biting and chomping through armor as though it was merely something crunchy and tough to chew.

The mimes stood shoulder to shoulder, with hands raised before them. The first spell Jyggalag launched slammed into the air before the mimes and exploded along an invisible wall, though the mimes were pushed back, despite claws sunk into the ground. They left gashes in the stonework, but stepped back up, their invisible wall still intact. Several reached skywards, presumably turning the wall into a box.

"Should we join in, Lord Sheogorath?" Autkendo Jansa asked, watching the devastation. The clowns could certainly be killed—Jyggalag had two speared on his giant sword—but they seemed very reluctant to die.

Lahallia smiled. "No, Jansa. You've done enough. Let the clowns do their work. I shall see to Jyggalag." But before she walked past the barrier of mimes, she walked back over to Orphael, patting his shoulder before letting her hand slide down his arm to his wrist.

The numbness vanished into a discomfort like fiery pins and needles up his arm, but he found he could flex his hand again. "Wait here, right?" he asked, disgruntled. He still could not _use_ that hand, and she had to know it.

"At least until that arm mends." Dropping her voice she added, "You can protect me all you like, once this is over. But I owe him a grudge match. You wouldn't ask me to walk away from _that_, would you?"

Yes, he would like to ask her to walk away from it…but he also like the tone she used. "Make it quick, then," he declared as gruffly as he could.

"I intend to." She strode past the mimes, their wall shimmering as she stepped through it. She also snapped her fingers.

Haskill, unruffled and undamaged, appeared between Jansa and Zudeh. He folded his hands behind his back, watching placidly, as if this were part for the everyday mundane chores associated with running a realm in Oblivion.

Staff in hand, Lahallia stopped on the second terrace from the bottom. "You threw me into a wall. Do you have any concept of how much that _hurts_?"

Jyggalag hit Lahallia with the same shock spell that had failed to break through the mimes' protective wall. Lahallia swung her Staff like a bat, sending the spell rocketing skyward over the walls.

"Sheogorath two, Jyggalag…" she looked around as though assessing the damages to the realm. This attention made others aware that the water freed when the crystalline shell exploded had continued its creeping progress down several terraces, restoring them to their proper state as it passed, forcing the Greymarch back. "One. You've made such a mess for me to clean up. If there was time, I'd wrap you in bacon and feed you to the clowns. But…" She sighed as though to say 'what can I do?', and let the sentence hang.

"_This realm is mine. You are not Sheogorath_." Jyggalag raised his sword.

"No, not originally…then again you aren't either…" Lahallia held the staff near the amethyst orb, as though it was a sword. "…and this place _likes me_."

Jyggalag moved with a speed hardly to be believed from one so large.

Using the Staff like a two-handed sword, Lahallia caught the blow, staggering under the weight but still standing, still able to fight. She stepped out from under the sword, causing it to slip, embedding itself in the stone of the terrace.

Haskill walked up to the wall of mimes, standing between two of their number, watching the battle. She was not as invincible as she liked to think—though as far as mortals went she was very close to invincible. She was also quite correct about the Isles 'liking' her—for he could sense the powerlines of this place twisting about her, ready for her to call on them.

Only she did not really know how to harness that additional power. A disadvantage, but Jyggalag certainly could not wrest power from the Isles anymore—not with a Daedric Prince (or at least a stand-in) to assert will over the plane.

Orphael joined Haskill, massaging his arm in hopes of restoring it to full functionality. The Mazken said nothing, watching as Lahallia parried Jyggalag's blow.

Lahallia was out of reach when the silver claymore bit into the stone terrace, for Jyggalag had to remain on the ground level in order to reach her, small as she was. Doubtless she could have _made_ herself bigger—or made the palace and everything in it smaller—but her size certainly had advantages.

Lahallia jumped down to the bottom level, where Jyggalag's feet were and drove the sharp end of her Staff into his massive foot. The Staff sunk in like a pin, but darkness blossomed under the crystalline hull. Jyggalag jerked in pain, but Lahallia was gone when he looked around.

Orphael could no longer see, and tried to walk through the wall as Lahallia had, but stepped into the barrier as though it were a brick wall. One of the mimes turned its head—but not the rest of it—to snarl soundlessly at him, its lips pulling back from black gums and white teeth.

"I wouldn't try that again," Haskill advised mildly.

"I just want a better look…"

Jyggalag jumped again, whipping this way and that. Doubtless Lahallia was keeping herself hidden by using Jyggalag own massive bulk to hide herself. Jyggalag could not, like the mimes, rotate his head all the way around on his shoulders.

"Of course you do. But _she_ wants you to stay put. And rather than tether you, she's letting you walk around at your liberty…so long as you stay behind the barrier wall. It's quite considerate."

Orphael snorted. Who was Haskill to talk about being considerate? Civil, maybe. Unhelpful definitely. But not considerate.

Jyggalag caught sight of the Altmer every so often, but she was always gone—and usually after a stinging pinprick to his feet, ankles or calves, which seemed to pierce his armor effortlessly.

He tried stabbing her, but she stayed mostly out of sight, continuing to take advantage of his bulk. He tried crushing her with his feet, but could not find her to aim and mindlessly stamping went against his grain. Spells she deflected with that cursed stick. She could not defeat him, not when she was only a little hornet, stinging madly until some blow finally caught her.

The pain he could put aside, but the annoyance of it…he rarely _felt_ enough of anything to identify the motion, but in this case _annoyance_ would define the emotion admirably.

Lahallia leapt lightly onto the next terrace up, intending to leap further and catch Jyggalag somewhere more vital. He was a fool without realizing it. He ignored pain, pushed it from his mind as a mere annoyance, something not worth his time. He did not realize the purpose pain served other creatures—a warning of damage. And according to the dark murk spreading beneath his armor, he was damaged. He would not catch on until he could see it clearly—hence why she attacked below the knees.

Jyggalag caught Lahallia in his hand when she gracefully land. He snatched her up—proven methods worked once as well as subsequent times, as he knew they must—and threw her with all his considerable might.

Mazken and Aureals, having watched in silence, cried out, fearing a reenactment—thought with less frightening consequences—of the last time Jyggalag picked her up and threw her.

Lahallia, however, knew better than they did. She hit the mimes' barrier wall, her knees bending until she nearly sat on the barrier. Before her momentum finished transferring to the wall—and a sudden stop—she pushed off it, revering the momentum to fling herself back at Jyggalag. As she struck him, she sunk her Staff in deep before dropping harmlessly to the ground.

Lahallia's shoulders ached as she drove the Staff into Jyggalag's breastplate, as though she was the hammer against a stubborn nail. Once the Staff ceased to drive in, she let go of it, dropping to the ground. The landing after the long drop hurt as well, and only her current state—not quite Daedra, not quite Altmer—kept her from breaking an ankle, landing while wearing those accursed heels.

Only a Daedric Prince (or a stand-in) could fight effectively in heels…but they were still uncomfortable.

Jyggalag began to flail, his hands too large to free the stinger pouring Madness into his body, corrosive and poison to him.

"That's enough. The match goes to Lord Sheogorath."

Lahallia turned, for the voice belonged to Haskill. But she and Jyggalag were no longer standing in the courtyard of the New Sheoth Palace.

They were quite a long way above it, and Lahallia suddenly remembered how much she hated heights.


	67. Chapter 67

Chapter Sixty-Seven: The End of Order

--SI--

Jyggalag fell backward onto the air, which seemed solid enough beneath Lahallia and Haskill's feet. It certainly supported Jyggalag's bulk, sprawling as he was on it. Even as Lahallia eyed him coolly, she realized Jyggalag, Haskill, and she herself had all reached a similar size. At least, Jyggalag no longer towered over them like some sort of crystalline atronach.

Haskill strode forward. "Forgive me, your lordship," Haskill reached up and yanked the Staff of Sheogorath free from Jyggalag's body. The Daedric Prince gave an exhale as of pain, but a moment later, without the cursed stinger pouring poison, sat up slowly, as one with a hangover.

Haskill bowed his most subservient bow as he presented the artifact to her.

Lahallia took the Staff with a nod of thanks, still eyeing Jyggalag mistrustfully. The bad blood between them had not had time to drain off, just as the Greymarch had not yet had time to drain from the land—though from their lofty vantage point Lahallia could see the silver-gray Order rolling back like a curtain being pulled away from a masterpiece.

"There's no need for that, my Lord," Haskill declared blandly, seeing Lahallia's open mistrust. Likely as not, she would run forward and put the Staff's sharp end through Jyggalag's head while he remained dazed. He would recover, but it would take time—and as a Daedric Prince, Jyggalag had nothing _but_ time. "Lord Sheogorath _did_ win, Lord Jyggalag," he added, as though confirming a fact for someone who had missed the first moments of an important meeting.

"I am beaten," but the monotone contained the barest hint of something Lahallia could not define. As though the hulking crystalline creature was half upset, half sad, and half…relived. "Look below. The Greymarch is ended."

Sure enough, the crystal pillars, all that remained of the Greymarch now the silvery Ordering had finally finished rolling back, exploded into something shimmering white. Snow, Lahallia realized (though likely not the same unique snowflakes Nirn saw). The land still looked ravaged, broken and beaten, with leaves stripped bare and nothing moving across the hills and swamps. No more remnants of Jyggalag's empire glinted silver in the sun, and the clouds she had summoned upon emerging from her crystalline cocoon dispersed, revealing a beautiful copper and pink approximation of sunset.

"Casualties, Haskill?" Lahallia asked, gazing down at her ruined kingdom. _Her_ kingdom…she liked the sound of it, even if the words existed only in her head. For now.

"Would you not rather..." Haskill began.

Lahallia's eyes flashed dark, the threat of Dementia-brand punishments in them. "_Casualties_," she growled. Then, with the abruptness of her predecessor—for with the seat went many of the flaws—she beamed at him, her eyes lightening again. "If they're too high, I'm going to let the clowns nibble _you_." As though promising a child a sweet, in exchange for cooperation.

Haskill inclined his head patiently. Before, he might have found the deadly sweetness, the cheerful sadism of her tone amusing. Now, she was to be taken seriously. Very seriously. "Moderate, my lord. Most of the citizenry evacuated to Highcross are alive. The fallen Aureals and Mazken will soon return to their points of recall. Madame Verenim is alive, and quite untroubled by all this trouble," Haskill had no sense of humor, so he did not smile at his wording.

"Don't talk to me about _her_," Lahallia's eyes flashed, her cheerful if somewhat mistrustful, mood vanishing in a flash, replaced with a black look. Perhaps she should save the clowns for Relmyna…but then an idea struck her, and idea that erased the vaguely psychotic expression from her features. _That_ would be better…so much better…and so much more amusing. For herself, as well as…others. "Continue."

"Nanette Don survives. Small pockets of those far enough underground…" Haskill droned on and on as Jyggalag recovered himself.

"Good," Lahallia nodded vaguely. Her mind felt cloudy, but not so much she could not function. She could feel the pull between Mania and Dementia, both balanced on her Apocrypha-instilled sense of order. She could feel Vision lurking in her mind, but less violent, less pronounced. She had changed enough that it could no longer act upon her in the way it used to. It could still seize her...but it could no longer make her miserable.

The rules by which the Daedra operated apparently had something against violent Visions—most likely the ones she got in future would be like gibberish. She could live with gibberish. "_Now_ we can talk about 'whys' and 'wherefores'. While I put the critters back. It's too still, to quiet…to bland and boring," she shot at Jyggalag—who ignored her—before kneeling on the spot. Without knowing the specifics of how she did it, she began dreaming up creatures and putting them wherever they looked as though they belonged, like a child dressing dolls, or assembling the necessary articles to do so.

"_For millennia this drama has unfolded, and each time, I have conquered this land, only to be transformed back into that gibbering fool, Sheogorath_." Jyggalag spoke up after a long silence, during which Lahallia created an entire colony of elytra with pink spots, which she exchanged immediately for pink stripes, before turning the stripes a different shade of yellow-green. Some things were too silly, even for a place like this, and brilliantly pink markings were one of them.

On a flight of inspiration bird-like fish—skyfish—appeared in a school, black things with long flowing fishtails and rippling wings, all black but glittering green-blue or magenta-gold. Scales or feathers, Lahallia mused to herself, the way she'd 'painted' them made it hard to tell.

"_It was not always so. Once, I ruled this Realm, a world of perfect Order. My dominion expanded across the seas of Oblivion with each passing era_," Jyggalag continued.

Lahallia scowled at him. "You were _invading_ other Princes' Planes. I know about that, and I know what you did to the Apocrypha. And poor Dyus." The psychotic streak reasserted itself. "Do you know what that poor little being _suffered_ before you locked him up?"

Jyggalag ignored her, and Lahallia busily and irritably made a gnarl _blue_ instead of _brown_ and released it into the wild, feeling sullen and resentful. She did not notice the error in color, and the creature scurried into the nearest cavern it could find. Of course, Lahallia was Sheogorath. This was her realm. She could not make mistakes. The idea was unthinkable—so it never crossed her mind.

One blue gnarl was not enough o concern her at this point. She could rediscover it later, and be amused by it, if she needed amusing. It was of course, Haskill who made a note of the color aberration.

Lahallia reminded Jyggalag too much of the gibbering fool he spend too many ages as. Already her usual amount of sanity had half slipped away, though she seemed to have gone as far as she would into the haze of madness, which _must_ accompany Sheogorath. "_Then, you already know, the others stormed the Nameless Facet. They overwhelmed my army. Took my Chessmen away from me_…"

"You should have called them pawns," Lahallia grumbled. "Or prawns, either way they taste yummy with lemons. Ask my clowns." Her knees growing uncomfortable in the bent position, she beckoned a bank of clouds over and sat down, the fluffy mass shifting to accommodate her comfortably. Haskill moved to stand off to one side, as he so often stood to one side of Sheogorath's throne in the Palace.

"…_they captured me. Cursed me with madness. Doomed me to live as Sheogorath; a broken soul reigning a broken land._"

"I don't feel sorry for you." Lahallia grunted.

"_I do not expect sympathy. I have no use for it_," Jyggalag answered philosophically.

Lahallia stood up, and began changing the colors of the clouds in a sulky sort of way.

Haskill sighed. The more things changed—and he knew he would come under interrogation next.

"_Once each era, I was allowed my true form, conquering this world anew. And each time I did, the curse was renewed, damning me to exist as Sheogorath_."

Again, Lahallia did not answer, busily painting the clouds. But she was listening, hoping for the last few gaps in the picture of _What Once Was_ to fill in. She eyed Haskill sidelong. He shifted uncomfortably. Good, he should be uncomfortable. He had caused her a lot of discomfort. He must know his turn to answer questions—straight, honestly, and entirely—was coming. She wanted to knew _what _he was. And _why_ he was so annoying.

"_Now, though, you have ended the cycle. You now hold the mantle of madness, and Jyggalag is free to roam the voids of Oblivion once more_," Jyggalag got laboriously to his feet, dark madness still swirling beneath his crystal armor like corruption.

Lahallia turned to frown at him. Surely he would _learn_ from his mistakes…otherwise he would be exhibiting insanity. "Now what?"

"_I will take my leave, and you will remain here, mortal. Mortal...? Daedra? It seems uncertain_," and a note of real perplexity entered his tone. "_I would avoid Mora, if I were you_."

Lahallia shivered. Yes, staying out of the Apocrypha would be a good thing. She would hate to end up confined to a little notebook all by herself, a little notebook on a big shelf full of other notebooks…she gazed back down at the palace. She liked it here. People liked her here.

And one of them loved her. Really _loved_ her. And not the way a Mazken loved his Duchess, or even his new liege-lord. He alone was unique, special. He alone knew her, and would call her _Lahallia. _And while this might convey a certain amount of simpering soppiness, Lahallia smiled, knowing it would be far from simpering soppiness. More like smirking impishness.

"T_his realm is yours. Perhaps you will grow to fit your new station. Fare thee well, Sheogorath, Prince of Madness_." Jyggalag bowed deeply, and vanished in a flutter of falling snow, which caught the light.

"So," Lahallia asked, sounding more like her old self, brisk and businesslike. "Where do _you_ come from? And what are you? _Exactly_." Lahallia scowled in a way promising clowns, mimes, and uncomfortable situations involving the two if he did not follow her guidelines.

Haskill bowed, unphased by the question. She was Sheogorath, he had no choice but to explain things to her satisfaction. To tolerate just about anything she did—short of extremes in bodily harm—and not to let it bother him. It was the reason for his lack of a sense of humor, his lack of temper, his unflinching ability to deal with Sheogorath's mood and mood swings. "I was instituted by Lord Azura and Lord Mephala. I'm sure they had bits and pieces leftover from Order…and other places. You would have to ask _them_ for specifics, I'm afraid. Suffice to say, I am your chamberlain. I was your predecessor's caretaker. His 'detail man', if you remember."

Lahallia got up out of her chair of clouds, which immediately dispersed, curling on a nonexistent wind. "You were his _warden_." It made sense. He was here to keep Sheogorath safe from himself, to handle the duties of a ruler when Sheogorath was incapable—willingly or unwillingly. He maintained peace in the Isles. He declared the end of the Greymarch…as well as its beginning. Haskill was the power behind the throne. "His jailor."

"If you prefer indelicate names, then yes," Haskill answered, as ever unruffled. "You'll forgive me for saying so, but you hardly need such attention. You are not a prisoner here, nor are you here against your will. This is your sandy beach to build castles upon, my lord."

If he could have felt it, Haskill might have felt relieved of the burden lifted from his shoulders. Yes, he could manage the Realm when Lahallia-Sheogorath was otherwise occupied—he knew very well about her pet Mazken, as he was aware of Sheogorath's many attempts to give Lahallia-Sheogorath reasons to stay and fulfill the duty he set before her.

"Do you really belong here?" This too, plagued Lahallia, for unlike so many things in the Isles, he did not seem to have as many strings tying him there. She found herself aware of these things, without certainty of when she noticed. Perhaps it was part of the role she now filled.

"I belong to the Court of New Sheoth…or wherever my Lord Sheogorath is…or wherever she would like me to be."

"Why me?" Lahallia looked down at the palace of new Sheoth, knowing her people there would never realize she was gone. She could take her time, learn what she wanted, then go back. Throw a party.

Get rid of the clowns. And the mimes. Once having seen them up close—and now having seen them at a distance—she decided she did not like them. They weren't even funny. Not remotely. They would scare the citizens.

And the Daedra, come to think of it. Maybe she should send them to visit Mehrunes Dagon…would he appreciate murderous clowns and their mime handlers? Hmm…did he had have the sense of humor required? Did his Dremora?

"Lord Azura put the idea into Lord Sheogorath's head, not long before you came. I don't know why, but I expect she will come to pay you a courtesy call before long," Haskill produced a watch. The hands did not move, indicating Lahallia was quite happy with the present time, and meant to leave it alone. Well, he thought, putting the watch back in its pocket, she would figure out how to change times according to her fancy sooner or later.

And for the first several centuries take excessive joy in doing so. Just has her predecessor had done.

"Well, I want to talk to my Daedra," Lahallia announced.

Haskill blinked, and found Lahallia gone, presumably back in the courtyard of New Sheoth.

As abruptly as she vanished a jerk at his ankle set him down with a thump in an antechamber of Sheogorath's throne room. An out of the way place, which until now had not existed. He suspected he knew why _he_ was put in one place, and evidently expected to stay there. Many books of 'humorous' jokes lined the walls. There was no door. Evidently Lahallia-Sheogorath wanted the palace—more or less—to herself.

With a sigh, Haskill closed his eyes, letting himself drift in a half-doze until he was wanted. It was nice to stay somewhere quiet and peaceful. Even if he could hear the soft titters of horrible jokes giggling from the pages of the books.

--SI--

Lahallia walked into the center of her Daedric army, after dismissing the clowns, mimes, and bodies of burnt-out dogs. The realm was enough of a mess with out all those things littering it. She also took opportunity to change her clothes, selecting a lavender version of the dress she saw in the Tree of Shades' grove. She was a Daedric Prince (more or less). Look what Azura liked to wear.

Or forget to wear.

She liked the way the soft cloth clung to her. The sky overhead with its hand-painted clouds looked beautiful, casting a warm glow over the courtyard. "The victory is ours!" she announced triumphantly. Her Daedra, previously still as stones, seemed to come to life, without a jerk, or twitch. "The Greymarch is ended!" Cheers, and shouts…

…and several jeers between the Mazken and Aureals. Now the crisis was over, they were free to dislike and snub one another again.

"Wait, I'm not done!" Lahallia called, and silence fell, her Daedra watching her with many bright eyes. "Head back to your respective headquarters. Welcome back your fallen, celebrate this victory. The garrison may return in…whenever you're ready. But after cake. There _must_ be cake! Cake before duty!"

Cheers again, and that stomach-wobbling smirk from Orphael, who evidently had the full use of his hand back, for he applauded her quietly, as though approving her first official act. Within minutes, the Mazken and Aureals trooped out, but of all of them, Orphael stayed behind, knowing Lahallia wanted him to.

"It's over," Lahallia said quietly, padding over to him in her flimsy dress and bare feet.

"The hard part's over," Orphael shrugged. "But if you think ruling this," he waved at the realm in general, "will be easy…"

Lahallia wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning against him. "I promised you could protect me—what's to worry about?" she asked slyly.

"Is _that_ why you wanted everyone gone?" Orphael asked with equal slyness, wrapping his arms around her slender form. He could feel the warmth of her through that flimsy dress. He liked the dress, well enough…but he liked what was beneath it better.

Lahallia leaned back far enough to look into his dark face, before running her fingers along one of his cheekbones. "You don't want me?" she asked, pouting at him, but ruining the effect with the glittering her mismatched eyes. Daedra's eyes.

He did not answer, but his grip tightened.

Lahallia settled her head against his shoulder, enjoying the embrace. "Then call me softly."

--SI--

Author's Note: One more chapter to go!


	68. Chapter 68

Chapter Sixty-Eight: 'Of Shoes and Ships and Sealing Wax, of Cabbages and Kings'

--SI--

"I have a present for you," Lahallia-Sheogorath declared, once the Mazken and Aureal garrisons returned to fill the empty wings of House Mania and House Dementia.

"Oh yes?" Orphael asked, cocking his head, birdlike, to eye her beadily. He could not say how much time had passed between the battle with Jyggalag and now, but the fight seemed like a lifetime ago.

Lahallia-Sheogorath's twisted intentions for some unfortunate subject in her realm showed in her smile, her eyes glittering with Dementia's light. "I do." She strode up to him, still barefooted, still wearing the frothy lavender gown—and carrying her Staff nonchalantly in one hand. She reached up with the other and hooked her elbow around his neck, pulling herself as close to him as she could get. "I want you," she breathed against his mouth, "to get rid of Relmyna Verenim. "Any…way…you…want…" she kissed him teasingly. "However you want. I just want her _gone_."

Quite apart from liking Lahallia-Sheogorath, he liked the idea of getting rid of that evil woman just as well. "Shall I take notes on the process, my lord?" But the title was half mocking, half teasing, and not at all serious.

Lahallia chuckled. "If you have time. Leave her apprentice alone…but I want _that woman_ gone. I have something to see to as well…so we shall meet back here. Haskill is sure Lord Azura will be paying us a visit…and I want to be here for it." Lahallia was not sure if she would _like_ Azura—that particular Prince always seemed to get what she wanted—but she would like to meet her.

Orphael kissed Lahallia's brow, and she let him go.

"Go quickly, and return so," Lahallia called with a smile, though rather disappointed with such a chaste departing gesture. Well, that was Orphael's nature, mildly contrary, teasing, and occasionally mischievous. He kept life from getting boring.

Orphael waved nonchalantly as he left, the green-stone ring of Dementia glittering on one finger. For the time being, Lahallia found it easier to appoint an Aureal and a Mazken to watch over House Mania and House Dementia respectively. And it pleased her to appoint Orphael, and Mirel. At least this way her conscience was eased, in the matter of using Mirel's brilliant plan to lead his company to slaughter.

He, of course, did not remember this, and when she presented him the Ducal Seat, she thought he might die of shock. He did not, although he was not adjusting as well to his position as Orphael. Well, he did not have all the privileges the Duke of Dementia had. Not by a long shot.

Lahallia waved her hand, drawing from nowhere a long cloak of vivid magenta, with coppery embroidery around the hood and hem. "Haskill?"

Haskill appeared promptly, dressed in his usually clothes, with the exception that instead of black and red, they were lurid green with otherworldly purple splotches. He bore this patiently, though the irony was not lost to him. Payback always contained compound interest, doubly so with Daedric Princes, who seemed to specialize in various forms of payback.

"I'm going out. I shall be back soon. If Lord Azura calls, try to entertain her until I return."

Haskill bowed. "I think I have read enough books of jokes to find at least one which will humor her."

He could read the books, but unless he learned inflection and timing, he was a lost cause. Oh well, she did not need him as a jester.

--SI--

Duke Orphael of Dementia did not knock when he entered Xaselm. In fact, he moved as though he owned the ruin. By the time he encountered Relmyna herself, self-satisfaction was stamped all over his face. Relmyna did not remember the first Sheogorath. All her memories of him referred to some greater Daedra, but not to a Daedric Prince. And she understood he was dead—which put her in an incredibly foul temper.

"You!" She spat. "Does her lordship not require you in New Sheoth?" Relmyna snapped, red-eyed, and pale.

Orphael said nothing, but looked around the hated dungeon. He still did not remember his tenure here and did not want to. "This is possibly the most grotesque building I have ever had the misfortune to venture into. Has anyone brought this to your attention?"

"If you don't remove yourself from here immediately, you _won't_ leave it a third time," Relmyna growled, her eyes glittering with malice and sadism.

Orphael drew himself up. "You forget your place. I'm here on Lord Sheogorath's business."

Relmyna stopped, closing her mouth as though Orphael had slapped her. "Oh?" She sweetened her tone, but her face grimaced as though she tasted something foul. Fouler than the air in this ruin.

"Yes. Lord Sheogorath feels she no longer requires your services." Orphael enjoyed stringing this out with all the pleasure of the truly Demented. Ah, but Lahallia-Sheogorath had sense: put one in charge of Dementia who knew it best. And who knew better than a Mazken?

Relmyna flayed her lip. "Of course, it must be," she answered ingratiatingly, "as Lord Sheogorath wishes. I shall gather my things—_and_ my child—and leave. If you'll excuse me."

"I'm, not finished." Orphael's eyes glittered as he advanced on Relmyna. "I'm afraid it's a little more complicated than that." Remlyna's smile faded to a look of resentment and determination. "Lord Sheogorath has no further need…of _you_."

If Orphael had not come with Lahallia-Sheogorath's blessing, Relmyna would have killed him on the spot, powerful sorceress that she was. However, he was here with all the protection the lord of the realm could bestow, rendering Relmyna as harmless as a kitten without claws.

And for the first time in her life, as Relmyna watched him draw a long and lethal looking knife, she knew _fear_. The shallow nick he put in her arm barely hurt, just deep enough to draw blood. Thinking this some sort of sick joke, Relmyna laughed.

By the time the poison on the knife began to work, causing pain, hallucinations, violent nausea, she knew what suffering really was.

Orphael stood, in the entryway to one of the halls, restraining Nanette Don from going to her mistress' aid, impassive as he watched Relmyna writhe and shriek, tormented by the pain in her body, as well as by the visions in her head. "It's better this way, Nanette," he declared quietly once Relmyna fell silent, stretched full-length on the floor, still with death. It took an interminable time—but a long span of it—for the Dunmer to give up and die.

Nanette trembled, still restrained by Orphael's arm. "Is it?" she asked bitterly.

"The Isles are free of her. And so are you."

Nanette freed herself from his restraining arm, gave him one look of utter loathing and fled.

Orphael calmly walked back to the entrance of Xaselm. An ignoble death for the very lowest of dregs in the Isles. Dementia would seem a much better place, without the pall of Relmyna Verenim to befoul it.

--SI--

Far away from Xaselm, Lahallia felt another mind in the Isles shatter completely. She paused only long enough to ascertain who it was: Nanette Don. Well, when one was so cowed, dominated by someone like Relmyna, one could hardly expect her to react well to that dominating force's death. Perhaps she would piece herself back together enough to function. Or she would not. It was sad, but not as sad as the wrong Lahallia-Sheogorath intended to set right.

Dyus of Mytheria—the Nameless Facet—still sat silent in Knifepoint Hollow, mulling over the impossible turn things had taken since the Altmer first walked into his prison. Her very existence, her possession of the Staff of Sheogorath, of the _name_ and _role_ of Sheogorath staggered him, leaving his mind further shattered than before she ever came before his eyes.

Lahallia found him as pitiable as ever, though she felt detached from the pity, as if it were only a sad memory, half-forgotten. He was certainly as shattered as anyone else in this realm, and more than some. Her new role in life left her acutely aware of other people's mental conditions.

Dyus raised his silver eyes to look at her, the lines of exhaustion and care etched deeper into his face. "Lord Sheogorath. As I expected. I will hear you and then ask for peace from your prattle."

"You may have peace now." Lahallia strode forward, reaching out, through the haze of Vision triggers to touch his brow with one pale finger.

For a moment, Lahallia Saw.

A tiny woman with red eyes and redder hair, cuddled contentedly against a kind-faced man with sightless eyes. In her arms lay two children, infants obviously only a few hours old, and beside his parents on the bed, a boy-child with a halo of golden hair and a wooden sword stuck through his belt.

Lahallia could feel the love in the room as acutely as if she was actually there, warm as the sunshine falling through the curtained windows of the Vision-room.

"Have your peace, Dyus of Mytheria." Lahallia let the spell pass through her finger into Dyus' brow as the Vision faded into a haze of golden mist.

He took a deep breath as though startled, then the lines of exhaustion vanished, pale lids closing over his strange eyes. He slumped where he was, his chest rising and falling peacefully. Placing her hand on his hair, almost downy and so pale, she spoke again. "Sleep long, dream deep, and let no unpleasant thing trouble you. You have suffered enough. Be at rest."

Dyus would have tumbled forward on the floor had the chains not prevented him from doing so. Lahallia touched the chains, and they vanished. Heaving Dyus onto her shoulder as easily as if he were a bag of meal she turned and walked out of Knifepoint Hollow with the shattered Daedra.

Crossing the threshold of Knifepoint Hollow she stepped forward into her throne room, at the base of the tree which still dominated the area behind the throne. The door opened obligingly for her as she carried her burden into the warm earthy caverns below. The aura here would make sure her orders stayed firm until the Font of Madness and its feeding fonts failed.

At the place where the three tunnels met, a small antechamber formed, holding only a bed. Lahallia unloaded Dyus onto it. He rolled onto his side, a look of peaceful dreaming and glorious relief on his features.

"Good night." Lahallia stepped out of the room, the door of which closed with a tiny click. She locked it with her staff, and left the Fountainhead. If Dyus was really so dangerous—and she could appreciate how he was dangerous—then he should be protected. And she would keep him close. Close, but without requiring him to suffer. He had not wrong her, or failed her. She need not carry out previous sentences.

She conveniently forgot about Dyus slumbering beneath the palace, so near the waters that connected him to the information moving in this land, information he was doomed to carry. But he need not shuffle through it in sleep, need not ponder it, extrapolate from it, be troubled by it. She would remember later, if she needed him, but as long as she did not, she would not.

And if she did not remember at greatest need, Haskill would. As boring as he often proved, he _was_ a good man to look after tiny niggling details.

--SI--

Azura put in her appearance shortly after Orphael returned.

His late arrival resulted from a systematic search of Xaselm, destroying all the poor, ruined creatures within, before removing Nanette forcibly, and warning her Lord Sheogorath intended to give Xaselm to the Dementia Swamps. So if she was smart at all she would go somewhere else. As a result of this logic, had come to New Sheoth with him. Sickly Bernice had not survived, to Orphael's sadness, but it left her taphouse in need of a proprietress. And Nanette jumped at the chance.

Lahallia-Sheogorath sat comfortably on her throne, watching Azura step into the room as Haskill announced her. Orphael stood beside Lahallia-Sheogorath's chair, as he often did. "Lord Azura," Lahallia-Sheogorath began the pleasantries, standing up to greet the Prince properly.

Azura was as lovely as reports indicated, but none of those reports ever indicated how proud she looked, almost haughty. Someone used to having her own way and none to scrupulous about how she did it—so long as no one else realized how unscrupulous. Her white hair tumbled forward in a cascade of feathery curls as she bowed politely, her black gown—even more flimsy than the one Lahallia-Sheogorath favored—rippling with the slightest movement. But the black suited her tanned skin and lavender eyes.

"Lord Sheogorath, it is a pleasure to greet you. May I speak to you, in private?" Azura's voice remained soft, but it was a voice used to giving order, and having those orders obeyed. But as she _had_ asked, Lahallia-Sheogorath decided to humor the other Prince.

"Leave us, please," she gave Orphael a meaningful look. He bowed his head and exited. He would find out the contents of the meeting later, if Lahallia felt like discussing it. The Duke of Dementia remained privy to many affairs of state that the Duke of Mania did not.

Lahallia-Sheogorath stepped down to stand a polite distance from Azura. "May I offer you a chair?" she asked civilly.

"Please," Azura sat down, the chair materializing exactly where desired, in shape not unlike her own rose-adorned throne back in Moonshadow.

Lahallia-Sheogorath sat down as well in a chair of similar make. This was cozy.

"I am afraid I've come here to ask a favor of you, your lordship." Azura shifted, settling comfortably in the chair, as queenly as she ever looked. She never expected the Altmer to succeed—trust Mephala to run her own schemes as well as influencing everyone else's.

Well, what could one expect from the Webspinner? That slinking little minx.

"A favor?" Lahallia-Sheogorath cocked her head, waiting for the blow to fall. "What could you ask of me?"

Azura considered then stated the request bluntly. "I want you to leave the door between your realm and Nirn open…and I would like permission, possibly, to use your realm's connection with Nirn at a later date. I may…need to return something they lost."

"Is that all?" Lahallia-Sheogorath expected something much more difficult. She meant to leave the door open, certainly. Azura's interest, however, was curious.

"Well, I ask you because it _will_ upset Mehrunes…you may not know him well, yet, but I can assure you he has all the tact of a rampaging Orc—though Malacath will resent me saying so. Of course, Malacath resents _all_ of us, come to think of it, but it hardly matters. Such an antisocial creature." Azura shuddered, like a bird fluffing her feathers.

"And you think Lord Mehrunes Dagon will pay me a visit if I agree to leave the door open?" He would certainly have paid her one without Azura's request, then.

"Oh yes, he's quite determined to stop me…" he could be determined all he wanted. He had never stopped her doing exactly as she liked before, and he would not do so now. The new Sheogorath did not come across as unreasonable. "…but with Jyggalag on the loose…" Azura did not feel comfortable with this, and blamed Mephala exclusively for letting it happen, though she had not yet been able to tell the wretch what a foolish thing setting Jyggalag loose really was.

After all the fuss of locking him up in the first place. And little Sheogorath was such a doll when he had good days.

"…and so few people want the bother of being on Mehrunes' bad side—he's quite tenacious about holding grudges. He absolutely detests me, you know." Azura examined her nails. _She_ was not afraid of Mehrunes Dagon. He had already disgraced her beautiful halls with his uncouth presence—months ago, to use the count of men and mer—and would eventually find out about Sheogorath's Gate. He had, so far, overlooked it, in his haste and arrogance.

He would consider Jyggalag a threat, judging the other Daedra as he would judge all things: as an enemy. And with Jyggalag's record for encroachment…perhaps Mephala's meddling was not entirely foolish.

Lahallia-Sheogorath shifted in her seat. Was _she_ afraid of Mehrunes Dagon? No, definitely not. This was _her realm_. What could he do except make a great deal of fuss? _She_ ruled here. _Her_ realm, _her_ rules. She would like to annoy him. It would be interesting, amusing…insane. "Of course," Lahallia-Sheogorath beamed. "I'd be happy to oblige you in this. I won't even ask what you're up to."

Azura's smile became fixed, pleasantly triumphant but with a streak of cruel humor at the discomfiting of another Prince. "Thank you indeed. "

"Of course. But, if I should expect Lord Mehrunes Dagon, perhaps it would be best if I were to receive him without an audience." Well, without Azura, who would likely incense the temperamental Daedric Prince even further.

Azura laughed, a silvery sound, as she got to her feet. "Which means you're bored with this conversation. Don't deny it, I knew you predecessor well enough hazard a guess with you. I hope to see you again, little librarian."

"Speaking of libraries…perhaps you'll do me a good turn for this so-called favor of yous?" Lahallia-Sheogorath also rose to her feet, the chairs vanishing.

Azura's smile remained fixed. This Sheogorath was _sneaky_. She must learn it from her Mazken. "Such as?"

"I should like you, please, to take this to Lord Hermaeus Mora." Lahallia-Sheogorath produced a small book.

Azura took it, and flipped it open. It was an Attendant's catalogue, but painfully incomplete. On the last page was a note: _put this in the place you reserved for me, Lahallia Kiranni. _Azura's smile became genuine. "I shall do so. Thank you, Lord Sheogorath."

"Lord Azura." Lahallia-Sheogorath bowed. When she looked up Azura was gone. She had little concept of what was going on outside her realm, and did not much care. Now, she could look forward to seeing Mehrunes Dagon in his unbounded annoyance.

--SI--

Lahallia-Sheogorath had changed the sky outside twice before Mehrunes Dagon appeared without any sort of warning in the middle of her throne room. Orphael and Haskill flanked her chair, the former of which moved his hand to his sword as he loomed protectively at Lahallia's shoulder.

"Obviously, your lordship, Lord Mehrunes Dagon is here to see you," Haskill noted, disapproving the rudeness, but more because he knew he should, as Lahallia-Sheogorath's chamberlain. It was rude to simply kick in another Daedric Prince's household door and walk in.

Orphael curled his lip in distaste, while Lahallia-Sheogorath got to her feet. Mehrunes Dagon constrained his size so as to fit in the room—which _would not_ change to accommodate his usual appearance. She did not want to conduct this meeting sitting down—it made her feel vulnerable.

"Close the Gate," Mehrunes Dagon snarled, without so much as a glance around the room. His angry eyes burned as they rested on the Altmer. Another mortal with Daedric eyes…how he detested the lot of them…and Azura's pet and pawn as well…and they had set Jyggalag loose! Always mortals, touched by Oblivion, so much so you could see it in their inhuman eyes. Always Azura giggling in the shadows…always the same players…the same games.

And after all the trouble of containing Jyggalag in the first place, all the inconveniences of it…it made him want to smash many expensive, delicate things.

Lahallia-Sheogorath got to her feet, frowning. Was it normal for him to be so rude? It must be, Azura hinted it was so. "No."

The Daedric Prince snarled softly. "Close the Gate, mortal, or I shall flay the skin from your bones and use your spine as the whip to drive my war machine," he ended in a bellow, which shook the room.

Orphael, eyes flashing, stepped off the dais, drawing his sword with a ring even Mehrunes Dagon heard.

True to her word, Lahallia-Sheogorath allowed Orphael to interpret 'protection' however he liked. And this certainly fell under moments where he was appreciated in that capacity.

Lahallia-Sheogorath, despite her fear, shook her head, raising a hand to stop Orphael. She had to do this. He could stand there and look menacing, she was even grateful for his reassuring presence, but _she_ was the Daedric Prince now. Mehrunes Dagon had to realize it. "No," her voice remained steady.

Mehrunes Dagon took two steps forward before Lahallia reacted. As her guards immediately drew their swords—copying Orphael, now Mehrunes Dagon was actively menacing their lord—moving from the edges of the room to protect Lahallia-Sheogorath.

Lahallia-Sheogorath set her Staff to lean against her chair. She reached into thin air, feeling as though she was groping through water, clutching the wooden object she found there. With a swift spring forward, she brought the new staff down squarely on Mehrunes Dagon's head.

A blast of Daedric magicka and silence filled the throne room.

Lahallia-Sheogorath reached down with her free hand and pulled up by its ears a fluffy, red-furred bunny rabbit. "Now, Mr. Mehrunes Bunny Rabbit. We'll discuss manners. You don't shout at _me _here, or I'll have you put in a pie." She shookt he rabbit. "I like pie." She shook him again. "But you won't like it much if you're in one…if you even like pie. Moot point, moving on," she declared idly, waving Wabbajack and the rabbit both vaguely.

The on-looking Aureals and Mazken would have felt a strong stab of sympathy for any mortal-made-rabbit treated so cavalierly.

The door stays open. It's my door to my realm and I want it."

Never mind Azura asking very nicely the door be left open. For a little while, at least.

Lahallia-Sheogorath flung the rabbit bodily across the room, where it turned back into Mehrunes Dagon, who sputtered in indignation at having been seen fluffy and cute, with long ears and a wiggly nose. "I'll raze this patch of madness to the foundations," Mehrunes Dagon snarled.

Lahallia-Sheogorath beamed at him. "I'm _shivering_." Her tone held a note of warning. "You know, I like you better as a bunny rabbit. Fluffy-cute bun-bun…skipity-hop…" Lahallia-Sheogorath abandoned the inane babble as Mehrunes Dagon snarled something highly uncouth.

Her face hardened, eyes blazing in her face. "Now, don't go saying that rubbish to _me_," she snarled, her diction and accent changing abruptly as it sometimes did these days, "or I'll tip you headfirst into a pit of clowns. And not the nice clowns either, my Daedra can tell you."

No one remembered to whom the tone and accent belonged, except Haskill, Mehrunes Dagon, and Lahallia-Sheogorath herself.

For a moment it looked like she might actually have to follow through on her threat, then Mehrunes Dagon—with another several obscenities lashed creatively together—vanished into a seemingly solid wall.

Lahallia snorted, her speech regaining its usual characteristics. "_No_ sense of humor. You've got competition, Haskill," she announced, wandering back to her throne, which was more comfortable than it looked.

"I shall endeavor to work harder on that count, your lordship," Haskill agreed tonelessly from where he stood, off to one side, thoroughly unperturbed by the interruption.

"I should have made him a rabbit _permanently_. It'd be a nice _change_, don't you think?" Lahallia asked, smirking wickedly.

"Undoubtedly, your lordship," Haskill answered dutifully. His honest opinion was Mehrunes Dagon _would_ make an excellent rabbit. If only he could get put in a stew by his own Dremora…he would take awhile to recover from an experience like _that. _

"I still say feed him to the clowns," Orphael declared, sheathing his sword as Lahallia dismissed Wabbajack and reclaimed her proper Staff.

"If he comes back in a temper, we will. I'll get the clowns, and you can kick him in." Lahallia giggled wickedly. Sometimes it was good to wander in a haze of madness. No one else could have so much fun, plotting the torment of a Daedric Prince.

But sending him back to the Deadlands as a cute little rabbit still had merits. How could he live that down in the eyes of his Dremora? They would _laugh at him. Forever. _If he _really_ annoyed her, maybe she could heap insult on injury…feed him to the clowns first, _then _use Wabbajack and send him back home…

Orphael watched Lahallia's devious smile. Her loss of consistent lucidity had done nothing so much as enhance her personality. The last vestiges of the Apocrypha Attendant were gone, and in place of those gray rags…madness in the best sense of the word. It was like living with a tornado, never knowing which way it would go, or what it would do, except that it would leave chaos in its wake.

And chaos was madness' close cousin.

--SI--

The darkness pressed in on Mephala, for once taking time out of a semi-human form to simply _be_ darkness of a comfortable, but indeterminate shape, cradled by a hammock of spidersilk, suspended between two walls of nothing. She—Mephala rather liked being 'she'—rocked gently pleased with her recent works. Oh, manipulating Azura into using Sheogorath's Gate for her pet project was genius.

She would have smiled if darkness had a mouth to do it with. The first time she heard whispers of a plan by Mehrunes Dagon to take over Tamriel, her blood boiled. As soon as she had word his precious Mysterium Xarxes had re-manifested in Oblivion, she sent her best agent to steal it—and contrived for it to fall into Azura's hands.

Azura still prided herself that it was _her_ cleverness that gained the book. Azura had also accepted the suggestion that if she _really_ wanted to get back at Dagon, getting Sheogorath's cooperation was most important. The former Sheogorath would probably have _left_ the Gate open…so would his successor. But Azura had no way of knowing that.

But all had worked out according to plan—_Mephala's _plan—and Jyggalag would pose enough threat to Dagon that the Daedric Prince of Change and Destruction would know no rest, bracing for a war which would never come. Jyggalag's stint as Sheogorath would have educated Jyggalag as to the essence of insanity. He would carve out a new realm…but leave everyone else's well enough alone.

Using an Apocrypha Seer to serve Jyggalag in taking over the role of Sheogorath was too brilliant. For course, Azura expected the Altmer to die before such a 'catastrophe' as Jyggalag getting loose could occur. An agent uniquely fitted for the tasks ahead—the Visions so often served as a blind for a Seer's other strengths. No one wanted to risk an agent having a Vision in a bad spot.

Dagon was justly served for stepping on _her_ sphere of influence's toes. Wars had begun like that, as he should well know.

And quite apart from anything else, this whole affair was…fun. It broke up the monotony of mundane plots nicely. Daedra were so fun to get riled up, so hard to manipulate. It left her with a feeling of great satisfaction. And no one really realized her involvement's full extent until all was said and done.

Mephala mentally smiled, a lazy gesture. Azura would take ages to get over being used, even though she got what she wanted out of the plot. Dagon would _never_ forgive Azura, or Mephala herself once he eventually worked things out—but that was hardly troublesome.

Many people swore they would _never forgive her_—strange how so many of the mortals ended up dead. And the Daedra ended up licking the wounds of disgrace.

She loved being behind the scenes. Pulling the strings. Tweaking the web here and there. Watching carefully laid plots unravel…and watching others get tangled in those unraveling plots. Even better was the answer when asked _why_?

Because she _could_. Because she _wanted to_. Anything further than that was nobody's business but her own.

Mephala settled back again, entering a state of rest she felt she richly deserved.

--SI--

Author's Notes:

Okay! First of all, Oblivion belongs to Bethesda. Last time I'll be saying that for a while.

Secondly, the title of this chapter is quoted from "The Walrus and the Carpenter" by Lewis Carroll who, of course, wrote 'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland' and 'Through the Looking Glass'.

Thirdly, for those of you who enjoy sci-fi, keep an eye open for my next work, MASS EFFECT: Cause and Effect.

Once again, I'd like to thank my original beta Pheonicia for her time and effort, to my reviewers, and to my readers. I appreciate you all.

~Raven Studios


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